


The Secret Identity of John Watson

by scifigrl47



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Everyone ships them, F/M, John doesn't understand that everyone thinks he's cheating, M/M, Misunderstandings, OCs exist for reasons, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:43:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taken out of context, John Watson leads a terrifying life. You have to wonder what those poor women he dates thinks of it, especially if John decides to try keeping one away from Sherlock, and Sherlock decides that it'd be best if he could get rid of her.  After all, Mycroft's taught him a thing or two about removing potential 'problems.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [The Secret Identity of John Watson](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2830928) by [SamuelE8688](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamuelE8688/pseuds/SamuelE8688)



> Previously posted at Fanfiction.net, moving stuff here because that site annoys me. 8)
> 
> Please have a little faith in what I'm doing here. The ending will clear up all potential plot holes. I promise. 8)
> 
> I've been notified by numerous people that Sam Carter is a character from Stargate. This is not a crossover. I am no good at picking character names, so when starting this story, I was watching tv when a commercial for John Carter came on. I looked the movie up, and there was an actress named Samantha in the cast listing. I combined the two and ended up with Samantha Carter. And that's your window into my really, really systematic approach to writing.

“I'm not saying that we're all going to die alone, I'm saying that statistically, we'd be better off turning to lesbianism.” 

That set off a round of howls and laughter. Samantha Carter held up a hand, ignoring the disdain on her friends' faces. “No. Really. Listen to me. Look, you-” She ignored the balled up napkin that bounced off of her forehead. “That was uncalled for.”

Caroline made a face at her. “Sit down, shut up, and drink your fruity girly drink.” She lounged back in her chair, her long, slim body shown off to the best effect by a short skirt and a tall pair of boots. Her hair was short and spiky, bright pink this week.

“You're drinking a goddamn Pearl Harbor, don't you insult my margarita.”

“Ladies, ladies. Let's all agree you both have horrid taste in drinks.” Emma giggled. She tipped her bottle of hard cider in their direction. She was short and sweet and soft, her brown hair falling in waves around her face, her cleavage an impressive display above a pink camisole top.

“And bars,” Margaret said, barely looking up from her smartphone. She was chewing idly on a swizzle stick, black hair cut in a bob around her smartly made-up face. She flicked a perfectly manicured nail against the tiny screen, and settled back, glints of gold jewelry at her throat and ears setting off her stylish, simple suit.

Samantha gave them all a look. “I am just saying, when is the last time any of us found a date that was actually worth mentioning? We live in goddamn London. Bloody best city in the world. So why are we still sitting here, on a Saturday night, hanging out with our girlfriends?”

“Because we are bored and stupid?” Caroline asked.

“Thanks, Caro, thanks.”

“Because it was better than the other suggestion of sitting in your flat watching _Wolverine_ for the fifth time,” Margaret said, her ruby red lips tipping up, just a bit. “This month.”

“I have other movies.”

“And yet, we continue to watch Hugh Jackman run naked through fields.”

Emma raised her hand. “I, for one, have no problem with this.”

“Thank you,” Sam said to her, dignified. “And it would probably be better than spending money on watered down drinks surrounded by creepy blokes without a brain cell to their names.”

“I like drinking,” Caroline said. “It makes you tolerable.”

“Sod off, brat.” Sam collapsed back into her seat with a groan. “I want a date.”

“Honey, really,” Emma said, with a faint smile. “You have the worst taste in men. The worst. I am not kidding you, your choices are...” Her voice trailed off as she tried to find something to say that wasn't a flat out insult. “Well, they're interesting, okay? Not always in a good way, but they're interesting.”

“They're horrible.” Margaret stabbed a cherry from her drink on the swizzle stick and popped it in her mouth. “Mouth breathers. Really, Sam, you can find the weirdest men.”

“Shut up.”

“They're right,” Caroline said. She leaned forward. “Look, next time some perfectly ordinary bloke asks you out, do yourself a favor and say yes.”

“I do!”

“Oh, you do not. Which is how you ended up dating the crazy environmental activist, what was his name? Dart? Something stupid like that?”

“Arrow,” Emma said with a groan.

“Look-”

“He wasn't as bad as the barrista who was secretly doing gay porn,” Margaret said. She flicked a glance up. “It wasn't even good gay porn.”

“How the hell would you know good gay porn?” Sam shot back.

“I may not know good gay porn, but I sure as hell know bad gay porn when I see it.”

“I never saw the porn,” Emma said. “Why did I never see the porn?”

“Because it was bad,” Caroline told her.

“Wait, you saw it too?” Emma's voice rose to a squeak. “That's not fair!”

“Life isn't fair,” Caroline said. “And it was bad gay porn.”

“He wasn't that bad.” The other three looked at Sam with varying degrees of pity, disdain and concern, and she threw her hands up. “I do not have bad taste in men.”

“You have the worst taste in men of any woman I've ever met,” Caroline said. “And that includes me.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Sam threw back the rest of her drink. “The next one will be normal.”

“Fifty quid says the next one is the worst yet,” Caroline said.

“Hey!”

“I'll take that bet,” Margaret held a hand out to shake. 

“I hate you all,” Sam said, standing. “I'm going to go watch bad movies that involve men taking their shirts off. Who's coming?” Every hand around the table went up with varying degrees of enthusiasm. “Right, then.” She waited for everyone to finish their drinks before she lead the way to the door.

*

So she might've had a slight hangover. These things happened, after all, she was a normal woman in her early thirties, and sometimes she had a bit too much to drink when her friends were involved. She was aware that having a bit too much to drink on a Tuesday was really pushing it, but that didn't happen very often.

Just... Sometimes.

Still, she might've had the tiniest hangover thanks to Caroline and her bloody insistence on making mojitos once they got back to Sam's flat. At the very least, her aching head wasn't improved when she got to work and found out three tellers had called out sick. With a small bank like the one she worked for, that was a catastrophic labor shortage. While the manager Laurie was on the phone with the home office, seeing if they could borrow some tellers from another branch, Sam had balanced a drawer and headed to a teller station.

She'd been a loan officer now for years, but she could still remember how to do this. She hoped.

It was calming, really, making change and making small talk, printing receipts and settling out accounts, taking payments and deposits. Less stressful than her usual day, even though she knew that her work was piling up by the minute, and there was no one coming to relieve her of it. As soon as the front counters were manned, she'd be up to her neck in loan applications.

Still, Sam'd take the brief reprieve while she had it.

“Next, please!” she called to the line, ducking her head back over the computer keyboard. She heard the customer stop in front of her and finished up, as fast as she could. “Sorry for the wait, how can I help you this morning?”

The man in front of her gave her a smile and a deposit slip. “Morning,” he said, and he had a nice voice, steady and calm. His eyes were warm, hazel with just a touch of crinkle around the edges, and a wide, mobile mouth. “Just depositing, please.” 

“Hello, Mister-” Sam glanced down at the deposit slip and ID he'd passed over. “Mr. Watson.” She gave him a grin. “Cash back today?” He hadn't indicated anything on the deposit slip, but a lot of customers, eager to get in line and away from the station where they filled out the carbon copy slips, neglected that.

“No, thank you.”

She glanced at the paycheck, noting the name of the surgery with a flick of a raised eyebrow. “You know, you can skip making the trip if you set up direct deposit with your employer,” she said. “Not that we don't enjoy seeing you, but it does make things easier, when you're in a rush.”

His lips twitched, and his eyes only got warmer. “Yeah, I'm in the process of switching banks, so... They haven't managed that, yet. Thought it would be this week, but I got in yesterday to find that resting on my desk, so I'm still waiting in limbo, I guess. Half of my deposits and bills are still going to the other accounts, it's a mess. I think it'll be months before everything's settled.” He didn't seem angry or frustrated by that, just amused, as if he'd seen worse.

Sam glanced at her screen. “So I see. You've only been with us for a couple of weeks. Thank you for bringing your business to us, Mr-” She glanced at the cheque and corrected herself. “I'm sorry, Dr. Watson. We'll do our best to deserve it.” It was nice that he hadn't immediately jumped down her throat when she'd called him Mister as opposed to Doctor. That happened often enough that some of the regulars had a note on their accounts now with a reminder. John Watson didn't even seem to notice.

He gave her a slight smile. “My last bank kind of mixed up my deposits with my withdrawals and started paying my employer. Which I prefer not to do, the job's not that good.”

Sam laughed out loud, something about the warmth in his eyes, as well as the utterly calm way he said it, like it as no big deal, even though she was sure it had been a very big deal indeed. “I understand fully. Don't worry, we have a very strict 'we like money' policy here. No letting it out of the accounts unless we're forced to do so.” With a grin, she handed him the receipt. 

“I appreciate your assistance in keeping my money with, well, you, and in retrospect, this is not going to work out well for me, is it?” John asked, picking it up with a nod and a smile. “Nice meeting you, miss.”

She wasn't sure why she did it, she was usually firm in her 'don't hit on the customers' rule, because if she screwed that up, well, it was pretty awkward when she had to turn them down for an auto loan. But he seemed so grounded, so ordinary, so, well, nice, and she could hear Caro and Margaret in her head, mocking her taste in men and what the hell, she could try, couldn't she, no, she probably shouldn't.

“Nice meeting you, too.” And Sam gave him her card. “Samantha Carter. I'm usually the loan officer, but we're short handed today.”

He took it, only a flicker of his eyes giving away any surprise. “So, you're not usually out here?”

“Sadly, no.” She checked, but by some miracle, there was no line, so she could flirt a little bit longer without ending up on the death end of Laurie's glare.

He paused, considering. “All right, good, because then I can ask you if you'd like to get a cup of coffee sometime, because if you say no, I can just avoid your office.”

“What if I say yes?” Sam asked with a grin.

“Well, if things go well, I'll hit you up for a loan, and if it goes badly? I'll just keep an eye on my checking balance,” he said, after a moment of thought. “So you'll be instilling good financial habits, either way.”

Sam couldn't hold back a laugh. “No coffee,” she said, with a grin. “Dinner?”

“Dinner,” John Watson said, giving her a salute with her card. “I've gotta run, I've got patients. Can I give you a call to set up the time?”

“And the place,” Sam agreed. 

“It does help if we both know where to be and when,” he agreed. With a grin, he headed out the door, looking back with a wave just before he left. Sam leaned her arms on the counter. Yeah. This could work.

*

“So, I met a guy,” Sam said, and no one cared.

Caroline was arguing with the waiter as to what, exactly, constituted a Singapore Sling. She was not winning. Margaret was playing Angry Birds on her phone. She was winning. And Emma was flirting shamelessly with the college boys at the next table over, the ten year age difference be damned. Her boobs were winning everything, and it was a well-deserved victory.

Sam leaned over and planted a little victory flag in Emma's cleavage. “I claim these boobs in the name of Queen and country,” she said, and Emma stuck her tongue out.

“They are quite mountainous,” Margaret said, grinning down at her phone.

“ _Enormous_ tracts of land,” Caroline agreed.

“Thank you,” Emma said, plucking the flag free. “Did you get this out of your drink?” she asked Sam.

“No, I carry around a bunch of Union Jacks in my bag, of course it was in my drink. I don't know why. Out of tiny paper umbrellas?” Sam pounded the flat of her hand on the table. “I met a man.”

“Congratulations, I guess.” Caroline poked at her side. “The city's full of them.”

“I have a date with this one.”

“That's going to go poorly,” Margaret said, as pigs died on her phone.

“It is not, why are you all so mean?”

“Less mean and more pragmatic,” Margaret explained.

“He's nice, he's good looking, he has a job. He's funny,” Sam said, with a grin.

The other three exchanged a look, and she groaned. “Oh, c'mon, it's not going to be bad.”

“Look,” Caroline said, leaning over the table. “The men you date are like, well, like old school D&D characters.”

“Nerd,” Sam said.

  
“True. Anyway, there's a balance. For each good attribute, they have a corresponding bad one. When you seem to have found a man who could actually pass as a grown-up human being, that is terrifying. Because it means he is an ax murderer.”

“Or married.”

“Or gay,” Emma said, cheerful. 

“He's not gay. Or married. Or an ax murderer. He's a doctor.” They exchanged a speaking glance, and Sam gritted her teeth. “What.”

“Married gay ax murderer,” Caroline said.

“You are all unbelievably stupid. He is not a married gay ax murderer.”

“That's true,” Caroline mused. “That would be a bit much. Even for you. All we're saying is, take it slow, play it safe and do not get into any cars that hold bladed weaponry or tools. Just don't tempt fate.”

“But-”

“For once in your life, Sam, can you not end up calling us in hysterics after a date?” Emma asked.

“Never going to happen,” Margaret said.

“Why do I continue to talk to you people?” Sam asked.

“Because we buy you booze. It's the same reason you date.”

*

The pleasant little restaurant was lovely, the food was great, and John was a nice dining companion. The only downside of the night was that the waiter just kept glaring at her, and Sam wasn't quite sure why. She checked, trying to be subtle about it, but she looked presentable, her hair in order and her dress lacking any visible stains or rips. 

When he came to collect the plates and looked down his nose at Sam, she resisted the urge to get up and check and see if her dress was tucked into her hose. What the hell had she done?

John seemed oblivious. “Thanks, Angelo, it was great as usual.”

“Any time, John, any time.” With John, the man was hearty and laughing, clearly affectionate. He stacked the plates on his arm. “Any dessert or coffee tonight? On the house.”

John glanced out the front window, where the rain was still coming down in torrents. “I'm not really eager to go out there,” he said to Sam with an arched eyebrow. “Dessert?”

“Dessert,” she agreed, with a grin.

“Do you like Tiramasu? Angelo makes the best in the city.”

“Flatterer,” Angelo said, with a slashing grin.

“Yes, please,” Sam said, giving him a hopeful look. “How's your espresso?”

“It'll take a couple of layers off your teeth and a few years off your life,” John said, his voice sardonic. “And it's still worth it.”

“Excellent.”

“Two tiramasus, two espressos,” John said to Angelo, who gave him a smile and a nod. “Maybe things'll-”

There was the sound of screeching tires, and someone screaming, then a crash from outside, and everyone in the restaurant stilled. Sam's head jerked towards the window, her heart stilling as she saw the car impaled on the light post, and the foggy impression of a body in the street, almost hidden by the rain.

John was already up and moving. “Angelo, first aid kit!” he yelled, grabbing his jacket and throwing it on. Angelo all but dropped the plates at the bus boy station, plates and silverware and glasses making a racket as he dove for the bar. As John ran past, Angelo came up, throwing a medium sized white box in his direction. John caught it with one hand.

“Take the Mac, too!” Angelo yelled, and John snagged the coat from the stand beside the door, throwing it around his shoulders but not bothering with the sleeves as he shot off into the rain.

Sam was on her feet, jerking her jacket into place around her shoulders and fastening it as she moved after him. Angelo glanced at her, a phone to his ear. “You a doc Or a nurse?” he asked, and when she shook her head, he made a face. “Best stay here, then. Let him work.”

“Can he? I mean, out there? In that?”

Angelo snorted. “Oh, he's seen far worse. Far, far worse.”

Something about that made her shiver, and her eyes jerked towards him. “Isn't there-”

“You'll just be in the way,” Angelo said, shutting her down without even looking. He leaned a palm against the door frame, squinting out into the pounding rain. “Not a doctor?” he asked, as if trying to clarify something that didn't make sense to him.

“No. Banker,” Sam said, with a shrug.

Another snort, this one just a little disdainful. “Ah, I see.”

“You see?” Sam didn't know why she was taking part in this conversation, but here she was, feeling defensive because the waiter at what was clearly one of John's favorite restaurants didn't think she was up to snuff. She wondered what kind of Amazon princess surgeons he usually brought here.

“Never mind,” Angelo said, and it was so dismissive that she wanted to kick him.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you won't last long.” Angelo gave her a polite smile. “Trust me. Unless you're from his world... You do not want to get involved with John Watson, he'll put your nice normal little life in a tailspin.”

“What?” Sam choked out, but Angelo was already moving away, going to deal with a customer on the other side of the room. For an instant, Sam stood by the door, her hands making hard fists at her side. “What the hell do you mean, 'his world?'” But he was gone, and Sam's head jerked around, at the rain, at the restaurant, at the water shrouded forms lit by broken headlights. She grabbed the biggest umbrella from the stand, and pushed the door open.

Her legs were soaked by the time she made it to John's side. He glanced up, a flick of his head, and his eyes seemed surprised for an instant as she held the huge umbrella over him. “Thanks, Sam,” he said, and she realized he was braced forward, applying pressure with both hands, the raincoat laying over the girl's legs. His coat was over her torso, and he was using his jumper, folded into a dense square of fabric, to staunch the flow of blood. The girl was sobbing, and John bent over her, his voice reassuring. 

“It's okay,” he said, calm and gentle. “You have a broken leg and a lot of lacerations, but you're going to be fine. Melissa, I need you to look at me. Melissa.” The girl blinked up at him, her breath still coming in raw sobs, and John nodded. “Okay, good girl.” 

“It hurts,” she whispered.

“I know. But the ambulance will be here soon, and then we'll be fine.” He glanced at Sam. “Sam, can you put the umbrella down so it covers her and check on the car? Driver hasn't come out yet.” His eyes flicked down to his hands, and Sam looked at the bloodstained fabric, the bright red stains on his gloves, and felt a little sick. He was trying to keep Melissa calm, but it was clear that she was hurt worse than he was letting on.

Sam jerked a nod, and crouched down, setting the umbrella down with the handle parallel to Melissa's body, so the arch of the umbrella covered the girl's face and upper body, and John shifted to brace it with his knee. The rain was cold, and as soon as it started hitting Sam, she shivered. Running over to the car, she peered through the window, cupping her hands against the window so she could look in.

The driver was slumped over the wheel, not moving, and she bit her lip. She tried the door and was surprised when it opened. Reaching in, trying her best not to touch anything, she found the man's neck and pressed her fingers there, looking for a pulse. Finding one, she let out a sigh of relief. “He's alive! I think he's unconscious, but he's not dead,” she called to John, who glanced up with a nod and a smile. Sam reached around the man, doing her best not to jostle him, and turned the key in the ignition, turning the auto off. “Sir? Sir, can you hear me?” she asked, looking for any response.

“How's his breathing?” John called back. “Don't touch him, Sam, but can you hear him breathing? Does it sound normal?”

Sam leaned in, ignoring the way her ruined hair dripped all over everything. “Yes,” she called back. “A little labored, but it sounds okay. He's bleeding from the head.” She could see the lacerations in his scalp, and blood was flowing freely down his face. 

“Can you see bone? Anything else that looks foreign? Anything impaled into him?”

“No, just cuts. I don't think it's bad. He was wearing his seatbelt.” Sam crouched down, checking the legs, but the car had held together, and it looked like they'd be able to get him out without any problems.

“Good.” John was leaning over Melissa again, and his white dress shirt was a sodden mess, plastered against his skin like a layer of paint. His hair was hanging down, dripping across his face, and when he looked up to meet Sam's eyes, his face was white already. Despite that, his gaze was steady. “Do you smell petrol, Sam?”

She shook her head. “No. I don't think the auto's all that damaged.”

“Good. Stay there, okay?” There were audible sirens now, moving closer, and Sam wrapped her arms around herself, tugging her coat in close and crouching down to get some protection from the wind by hovering behind the car door. “Tell me if he stops breathing, or starts waking up.” Sam nodded, leaning against the car.

It seemed to take forever, but was really only a minute or two before the ambulance was pulling up, paramedics jumping out. “Were you in the accident, miss?” one said as Sam scrambled up on shaking legs to get out of the way. She shook her head.

“I'm with him,” she said, nodding at John, who was deep in discussion with the other paramedic. There were other cars now, emergency response kicking in and officers arriving on the scene.

“Oh, Watson? Good on that, he's a good bloke.”

She blinked at him. “You know him?”

“John Watson? Only once or twice, but my partner knows him better, he's got all sorts of stories. Mostly that he's heard from the coppers. I mean, Watson's like an urban legend at this point.” And with that, the paramedic got to work, and Sam stood there, her mouth kind of hanging open like an idiot.

“Miss?” The cop in a bright reflective slicker grabbed her elbow, pulling her away. “Miss, are you injured?”

“No. Not part of the accident,” she said, blinking at him through the rain. “I was in the restaurant-”

“Thank you for your help,” he said, a firm hand moving her away from the scene. “But it's best if you go back inside now. For your own safety.”

“What? Oh, yes.” She looked towards John, but he was working now, in tandem with the paramedic, properly supplied at last. Knowing that she was just in the way, she headed back to the restaurant on shaking legs.

Behind her, she heard the cop speaking to his partner. “Watson's on the scene, anyone called it in yet?”

“Yeah, right off. I don't need that kind of trouble.”

Sam froze, and shook her head. Must be hearing things...

“Yeah, after the bombing, I prefer not to have anything to do with that little corner of the city.”

“Yeah, what's it Lestrade says? Not our division? And I have no desire to have anything to do with Watson's division.”

Sam staggered away, blaming her clearly faulty hearing on the rain. Angelo met her at the door with a tea towel. “Sorry, luv, it's all I've got.”

“Thanks,” she said, and she meant it, patting her face and hair, trying to get as much of the water out as she could. Her jacket had done its job, thankfully, beneath it, she was reasonably warm and dry, but her legs were freezing. She stumbled back to their table, and tried to pat the worst of the moisture off of her nylon clad legs. A cup came down in front of her, and she blinked at the steaming tea. “Thank you,” she said, wrapping cold hands around the cup with a wince.

Angelo set the teapot down, and another cup. “John'll be in soon. I'll call you a cab, he's going to be half-frozen, but see if you can get him to drink a bit before you go, all right? I'm gonna see if anyone's got some clothes he can borrow.”

Sam saw him coming, and poured a cup of tea. But when he made it through the door, dripping wet, his lips a pale blue-white, he was stopped by a round of applause from the patrons. His eyebrows shot up, and he managed a lopsided smile and a little wave of acknowledgment, and Sam was pretty sure he was embarrassed. She smiled as she handed over the cup of tea, and he latched onto it with a sort of desperation.

“Thanks,” he said, and there was a faint slur to his words.

“C'mon, back here,” Angelo said, taking his arm. Now clad only in his dress shirt and trousers, John was soaked to the skin, and shed water as he allowed Angelo to drag him back towards the employee area. Sam trailed behind them, carrying the teapot like a demented parlor maid.

There was a small space, just before the kitchens, with a couple of lockers and a little bench. Angelo cleared off the mess of debris, and John sank down. They were close enough to the kitchen for the nook to be overly warm, which Sam liked and John probably loved. He finished his tea and Sam took the cup. “Here,” Angelo said, setting a faded tracksuit next to John. “Too big, I'm sure, but they're clean.”

“Thank you,” John said, and he was shivering now. Sam took the cup from him, and leaned over to pat the water out of his hair with the tea towel. He glanced up, giving her a surprised look, but smiled when she paused. “Thanks, Sam. Sorry, my first dates usually aren't so... Chaotic.”

Angelo snorted, and John stabbed a finger in his direction. “Don't you start. This is an aberration, and you know it.”

“Don't seem that way to me. How many coppers tried to get you in their cars?” Angelo said, as Sam rubbed John's hair dry.

“All of them. I am faster than them, thank you.”

“Keep telling yourself that, they'll get you eventually. C'mon, off with the wet clothes.”

“Not on a first date, for God's sake,” John said, but he was laughing, his shaking fingers going to the buttons on his shirt. 

“I got it,” Sam said, her cheeks pink as she batted his hands away and started working the buttons free of the sodden fabric. “Angelo, can you grab some more towels?”

“Yeah, good idea.” With a nod, he headed for the door. “Be right back.”

“Sorry,” John said, and Sam glanced up at him. He looked, of all things, embarrassed, and she grinned at him. 

“Most interesting first date I've ever been on,” she said, laughing. Finally, she managed to get the last of the buttons free. “Lean forward, this is like peeling a layer of ice off of you.”

“Feels like it, too.” He shifted forward, and Sam yanked it off of his chest, blushing a little herself. She hadn't expected the muscle she found there, he wasn't a large man by any means, but he was built solid, with defined muscle tone to his shoulders, chest and arms. Sam wasn't complaining about the view, that was for sure, and he tilted to help her work it loose. She pried his right arm free and reached for the left, but he was already doing it, half turned away from her.

Which didn't do much to hide the scar on his left shoulder. Sam was pretty sure, from the brief glance that she got of it, before he fumbled his way into the sweatshirt, that it was a bullet scar. She didn't know much about scars, and even less about bullet scars, but that one was angry and ugly and it looked like it had been traumatic. Emotionally and physically.

“He home tonight?” Angelo said, walking back in with the towels.

“What? Oh, no. Family thing, he's at his brother's place,” John said, wincing as he forced the sweat shirt down. Sam, jerked out of her stillness, leaned over to help. “I've a flatmate,” he explained to Sam. 

“Ah, so no chance of calling him to come get you and bring you home?” Angelo said, crouching down to pull John's shoes off.

“Not unless I want to rain death down upon my head. He'd take any excuse to leave, but no. I do my best not to annoy his brother, he-who-shall-not-be-named.”

“Tough family?” Sam said with a grin.

“You have no idea, the guy terrifies me.” John winced as Angelo peeled his socks off. “This is the weirdest date I've had in the longest time.”

Angelo was grinning at him. “Including the-”

  
“That was not a date!” John laughed. “Christ, you are never going to let me forget that.” He grinned at Sam, and she was relieved to see that he looked a little warmer, his lips and cheeks recovering some pink.

“Why, just because our waiter is stripping you, along with your date?” Sam asked, unable to resist, and John laughed, and he had a very nice laugh, warm and real and not at all displeased that she was kind of teasing him. Still, she was just as shocked as them by the words that came out of her mouth next, “If your flatmate's not going to be home, you can come, and, you know, stay at my place. Just to be safe.”

John blinked at her, and her cheeks heated. “I mean, just-” She squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to sink into the floor.

“Do you have a couch?” John asked, and she risked a peek.

“Yes?”

“I'll take you up on it,” he said, with a smile, and Sam smiled back.

“I'll, um, I'll get us a cab, then.”

*

“So, that happened,” Sam said to her friends, who were staring at her with varying degrees of shock and horror. She took a sip of her drink. “What.”

“Are you out of your MIND?” Caroline asked, eyes huge. “You brought him home with you? After one date?”

“It was a really good date,” Sam said, slumping lower in her chair.

“No, it was a date that ended with his shirt being thrown away because it was covered in blood,” Margaret corrected. “That is, by any definition of the word, not a good date.”

“Unless you're a vampire,” Emma said.

“He's not a vampire,” Sam said, rolling her eyes.

“Well, what is he, then?” Caroline asked, crossing her arms over her chest. “Seriously, Sam, that was weird. That whole story was weird. Cops, paramedics, bystanders warning you away, bullet wounds, what the hell? I thought he was some mild-mannered milquetoast doctor.”

“He is! I mean, not milquetoast, he's really nice, but he's not-” Sam tossed back her drink. “I may have been a little worried about thebombingthing,” she said in a rush, and they stared at her.

“What... Bombing... Thing...” Caroline said, her voice very carefully modulated.

Sam buried her face in her hands. “One of the officers may have said something about avoiding Watson since the bombing, that he didn't want to be in Watson's division.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Caroline looked ready to strangle her. “What division? I thought he was a doctor!”

“He is a doctor! He works at a small surgery, I've seen his pay cheques,” Sam moaned. “I don't know! It's fine, it's totally fine, he's fine, he slept on the couch, he made coffee before he left, everything is fine.”

“Maybe he's military,” Margaret said, poking her phone. 

“He's a DOCTOR,” Sam said, her teeth gritted around the words.

“A doctor who has a division dealing with bombings?” Emma asked, as if she thought Sam was particularly slow. “That's not normal, hon.”

“He's completely normal,” Sam said.

“Check the listing,” Caroline whispered to Margaret.

“What listing?” Sam asked.

“After the barrista incident, we found a great listing of gay porno actors. Like IMDB.”  


“Except with gay porno,” Margaret said, her expression not changing.

“He's not making gay porn!” Sam said, and that was probably a little too loud, because now half the bar was looking at her, and she tried to get very low in her seat. “I hate you all,” she hissed. “He is a normal man. Who is not making gay porn, he is not some weird military bomber, and he is not, I repeat not, a bad date!”

“No one said anything about a bad date. Sounded pretty heroic,” Emma said. “Plus, no reason to dissuade a good looking man from getting wet.”

“Well, there's a little thing called hypothermia, it's goddamn November,” Caroline said. “She likes 'em warm and wet, not cold and wet.”

“You are disgusting,” Sam said.

“Thank you,” Caroline smirked.

Margaret held up a hand. “All right, all right, children, settle down. Look, Sam, I'll do a quick search through some of the databases at the law office. Just the legal ones, you understand, I'm not getting fired or arrested for this, but I'll see how long it's been since his last gay porn.”

She ducked and the pretzel Sam threw went halfway across the bar to peg some guy playing darts in the back of the head. The four of them decided to leave soon after.

*

“So that's your flat.” Sam looked up from the sidewalk, grinning. “Nice part of town.”  


“It's a good neighborhood,” John agreed. “And the landlady's a gem.” He grinned. “I'd ask you up, but I never know what state my flatemate's left the place, so I'm going to plead 'I don't want you to think I live like a pig' this time, all right?”

“Sure. Your 'flatmate,'” Sam said, making finger quotes. She nodded at the coffee shop. “I'll just duck in here and grab something warm. You want anything?”

“Tea would be brilliant,” he said, fishing in his pocket, and she waved him off.

“My treat. Go, get your mobile before we're late for the movie!”

Laughing, he headed for the front door. “Going, going, stop being so bossy!”

“No!' she called after him, her cheeks pink with the night air. Laughing to herself, she headed for the coffee shop. It didn't take more than a few minutes to buy the drinks, and instead of sitting inside, she returned to the street, where she could watch the swirls of snow in the streetlight. She sipped her coffee, head tipped back and breath forming soft clouds around her face.

“Good evening, Ms. Carter.”

She jumped, spinning on her heel. Her foot slipped on the icy pavement and she would've gone down in a heap if not for a strong hand latching onto her arm. She blinked up, confused, at the man who'd appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.

He was tall and lean, looming over her without even trying. His dark, well-cut coat was set on clean lines, and a blue scarf was knotted at his throat. His features were austere, almost regal, his skin pale and his hair a mass of dark curls, with heavy dark eyebrows to match. It was his eyes that arrested her, pale and clear blue-grey, lighter than any eyes she'd ever seen, and focused on her with such intensity that she took a step back without realizing that she was doing it.

And she knew that was a mistake when his mouth curled up in a predatory smile. 

Sam straightened her shoulders and stood her ground. “I'm sorry, have we met?” she asked, and wow, was that a rhetorical question because there is no way that she'd have forgotten this guy, even if he'd just passed by her office once, there was something about him that commanded attention. Charisma, or maybe it was just that that primitive little knot of brain cells at the base of her spine realized that this was something that could, and would, eat her. 

Sam really liked her primitive little lizard brain. It was a trustworthy spasm of life-saving impulses.

And as she was having her little freakout, arguing with her own brain, his smile was just getting wider, and scarier.

“We have not, Ms. Carter,” he said, and his voice was soft and almost gentle, almost mocking. “But we have something in common, something... Important.”

“I cannot imagine what that might be,” Sam said, her fingers tightening on the cardboard cups. Maybe she could throw one at his face and run. Maybe the tea, that was the cheaper one.

“We're both quite fond of John Watson,” the dark haired man said, and Sam froze.

“Fond?” she croaked out, and his smile died.

“Are you not?” he said, and the snow had nothing on the evolving temperature of his voice. “I do hope you're not just amusing yourself at his expense, that would be unfortunate.”

“No, I do- I mean, I think- We've just met! This is like our second date!” Sam managed at last, and then realized she was not going to be having a goddamn discussion of her love life with some creeper on a street corner. “Who the hell are you?”

“It depends on the day,” the man mused. “I consider myself the greatest friend he has, but I doubt that opinion is one he'd share.”

“What would he consider you, then?”

“A burden he must carry, I fear,” the man said, and Sam shivered. “Occasionally, I am a threat to all he holds dear.”

“I don't understand,” Sam said, and she couldn't help but look up at the windows above her, watching for any sign that John would be reappearing to deal with creepy McCrazypants here. Because her head was turned, she never saw him move, and when he lifted the cup of tea from her hand, she gasped, jerking back.

He took the lid off and sniffed, eyes rolling. “A good try, Ms. Carter, but he doesn't take sugar.”

“That one's mine,” she lied, and he let out a little chuckle, a mocking sound.

“I can see what he sees in you, but no. Don't play these games, not with me, Ms. Carter. You've no hope of winning.” He took a sip of the tea, and her mouth dropped open in shock. “Don't worry, there's a replacement cup.” He nodded towards the coffee shop, and Sam saw the counterman waving at them through the glass, an easy smile on his face, holding up a cup. 

The man was behind her all of a sudden, his breath against her ear, his body heat a physical thing, and she heard him whisper, “I'm so pleased to finally meet you, Ms. Carter. John has been so looking forward to seeing you again, which makes me quite curious about you. I despise being curious, it's such a tedious state. I must dash, but don't worry. We'll see each other again. Soon.”

A cold shiver went up her back, and when she spun on her heel, she was alone on the empty street. Sam took a deep breath, then another, and stumbled back towards the coffee shop.

The counterman looked up with a grin. “Shoulda told me it was for Watson,” he said, warm and easy, and there was some comfort in that, wasn't there? If she'd just come close to being murdered on the street, this guy wouldn't be wiping down the counter top, would he?

Sam swallowed. “Ah, yes. Is he here often, then?” she said, not sure if she meant John or his dark-haired stalker. 

“Sure, all the time, in fact-” The man grinned over her shoulder as the door opened. “Evening, John.”

“Evening, Charlie,” John said, grinning as he slipped inside. “All set, Sam?”

She stared at him, and at the street, and his smile died. “You okay, Sam? You look a little spooked.”

“Just cold,” she said, before she could think of anything else to say, anything that would like her sound psychotic, like 'do handsome crazy men follow you around?' She held out the cup with his tea, and he took it with a smile, transferred it to his other hand, and took her hand in his. She felt the strain leech out of her, and nodded, her smile wider now. “Let's go. We've still got a movie to catch.”

*

Everyone was staring at her again.

Sam lay upside down on her couch, arms thrown wide, head back, staring blankly at a stack of bad action movies on her carpet. “Shut up,” she said.

“No one was saying anything, hon,” Emma said, and damn, that sounded pitying.

“You were thinking. All of you were thinking. Very loudly, I could hear the thinking, and it is annoying to me, so stop doing it, you bitches.”

“Well someone here has to do some thinking, and it's sure to hell not you,” Margaret pointed out. “You didn't TELL John?”

“No.”

“And WHY didn't you tell John?”  


“Tell him what, precisely? That a creepy guy on the street corner spoke to me for like five minutes and corrected his drink order? Because hey, that's a reason to panic.”

“If he was creepy-”

“Yes. Yes, he was creepy, but he wasn't-” Sam grabbed hold of her hair with both hands and made a strangled sound. “I don't know how to explain it. He didn't seem, well, malicious, just dangerous. Like a well fed lion. He wasn't going to chase me down and eat my head, because he wasn't hungry right then. No promises about tomorrow, but for now, happy to lounge around and show off horrible, horrible teeth.”

“Is... Is that a metaphor, or did he actually need, like a dentist?”

“It is a-” Sam looked up at Emma. “What is wrong with you?”

“Look, I'm not lying with my head on the ground whining about lions, so I'm doing better than you.” Emma gave her a shake of the head. “Look, that is creepy, I agree it's creepy.” She paused, biting her lower lip. “I think he's a mobster.”

Everyone looked at her with varying degrees of WTF, and her chin came up. “It makes sense,” she said. “It does!”

“Explain your crazy, crazy logic, please,” Margaret said.

Emma sat down with a huff. “Okay, maybe not mobster. But criminal. The cops know him.”

“And didn't arrest him.”

“Because they don't have any proof,” Emma said. “But that happens a lot with underworld types. The cops have no choice but to watch him. Wait for him to make a mistake. That would explain the cops and the bullet wound.”

“You are an idiot,” Margaret told her. “You think he's, what, a doctor for his day job and a gangster hit man at night? That's a little schitzo, isn't it?”

“There is something weird going on here, and none of us believe he's a simple country doctor except Sam, and she is notoriously stupid!” She winced, glanced at Sam. “No offense, Sam, I love you like a sister, but damn. You are not smart about men.”

“I hate you all,” Sam said without any heat.

“I'm really more concerned about the street corner stalker,” Caroline said. “Who does, I hate to say, fit into the mob vein.” She pointed a finger in Emma's direction when the woman started to smirk. “Do not take that as encouragement. It is not. Your idea is stupid.”

“Sam's dating a mafioso, and you know it.”

Sam groaned. “It is not that big a deal. It was probably someone playing a joke.”

“All the more reason to ask John about it.”

“And, can I say? That is someone with a sick, twisted sense of humor,” Emma said.

“It's fine,” Sam said, ignoring them. “The next date will be normal.”

Everyone gave her a pitying smile. She ignored them and went looking for alcohol.

*

“Hi.”

They looked up from their meals as one. Sam blinked at the stunning woman who was hovering next to their table, her eyes on her mobile. John straightened up, putting his silverware down. “Yes?” he asked, eyebrows arching.

The woman's lips twitched, but she didn't look up. “He'd like to see you.”

“All right, I'll give him a call after dinner.” John turned back to Sam, and the woman's smile only got bigger. 

“I'm afraid that won't work. I need you to come along with me, please.”

Sam's eyes darted between them, not sure what was going on. John half turned in his chair, looking up at her with narrowed eyes, and for the first time, the gorgeous creature looked up from her phone. She arched an eyebrow in John's direction. “Now, Dr. Watson. I'm afraid it's rather urgent.”

His eyes fell shut, and he gave a faint sigh. “I'm very sorry, Sam, will you excuse me for just a moment?” Wadding up his napkin, he tossed it to the table, and stood. Sam, caught off guard, nodded. 

“Of course,” she said, and that won her a smile before John headed for the lobby of the restaurant, leaving Sam staring at the lovely brunette, a little uneasy.  


“I am sorry to interrupt, Ms. Carter,” the woman said, her manicured fingernails playing across the mobile screen.

“I'm sorry, have we met?” Sam asked, and yeah, she'd like to be able to stop saying that to people, how does everyone know her when she doesn't know anyone?

That earned her a pitying glance. “No,” the woman said, with a faint smirk. She paused, and put her phone away in her jacket pocket. “Look, you seem like a nice girl. I don't usually get involved, but...” She bit her lower lip. “If I were you, I'd stop dating John Watson before I got hurt.”

Sam blinked. “Excuse me, what?”

“He may seem a pleasant fellow, but the people around him are anything but pleasant. They are very-” Her lips curled up, just a bit, just enough. “Intense is a good word, don't you think? You're just not prepared for what this sort of a relationship would entail, and you're much safer breaking things off now, before you got in too deep. Before someone else ends up ending it for you. Because he will end it for you, he always does.”

“Who the hell are you?” Sam asked, her fingers clutching her fork. It took all the willpower she had not to stab the self-righteous bitch with it.

“I'm just the pick-up service.” She pulled her mobile back out and seemed to lose herself in it in an instant.

As Sam stared at her, her mouth hanging open, John returned to the table, his hand white knuckled on his phone. “Sam, I am sorry, really I am, but I need to go.” He managed a tense looking smile. “I've taken care of the bill, and I'll give you a call tonight, okay?”

“Oh, sure. Emergency?” she asked, as the woman floated away from the table with a click of high heels and a soft sway of her hips. Sam couldn't help watching her go.

“I'm afraid so.” John leaned over and kissed Sam lightly on the lips. “I'll call you tonight,” he repeated.

“Okay. Thanks for dinner,” she said, giving him a smile. It died as soon as he turned around, and as he disappeared into the lobby, Sam jumped up and hurried to the front window. From there she could see the brunette open the door to a large, expensive looking black car, letting John slip into the back seat. She shut the door and looked directly at Sam, her eyebrows arching up in a 'well, what did you think we were doing?' expression before she walked around the back of the car and slid into the other rear door.

After a moment's pause, the car pulled away from the curb, and Sam turned around, intending to return to her meal, and had to bite back a shriek when she realized that John's chair was now occupied by his dark haired nemesis. 

He looked up at her, the movement laconic. His hands were folded in front of him, elbows on the table, and the woven fingers supporting his chin on bent wrists. He arched one dark eyebrow, his mad-colored eyes glittering beneath curls of dark hair. “Good evening, Ms. Carter.”

She took her seat, reaching for her wine glass. “Go away, or I'll scream for help.”

“You could, but you'd feel quite foolish if you did.” He reached out with one hand and ran a long, graceful finger along the rim of John's wine glass. “How's the wine?”

She paused, the glass almost at her lips, and her eyes flicked down to stare at the dark red dregs. Her throat closing up, she lowered it back to the table with extreme care. “Did you do something to it?”

His eyebrows arched, his lips turned up in an amused, mocking smile. “If I did, why would I call attention to the fact?” he asked, picking up John's glass and finishing the contents. He set it down again, his movements natural and easy. “You're entirely too easy to lead about, it's a habit you must set yourself to breaking, otherwise you'll be little more than a liability.”

Sam glared at him, her hands forming fists on her lap. “John-”

“Doesn't see me as a threat.” The man rolled to his feet. “As well he shouldn't. He is, after all, my absolute favorite puzzle, and I'm very, very protective of him.” He leaned over her as he swept around the table, his mouth almost brushing her ear, his tone languid and placid. “If anything were to happen to him, I would be very, very upset. Wouldn't you?”

She was still staring at John's empty glass as he strode away.

*

“Okay, that's weird,” Caroline said, an hour later. “Ex-girlfriend?”

“Ex-boyfriend?” Emma asked, enthusiastic about this idea.

“If that's his ex, I don't stand a chance, and he's never, ever seeing me naked,” Sam groused.

“Which one?” Margaret grinned.

“Either,” Sam said, her voice flat. Her head bounced off the table. “I have never come closer to peeing myself in a public restaurant.”

“Wait, he hasn't seen you naked yet?” Emma said, choking on her tea. “Sam, really?”

“Shut up! You think he's a mobster! Why do you want me to sleep with him?”

“Doesn't mean he's bad in bed,” Emma said, shrugging before she picked up her drink. “The constant danger of waiting to be arrested by the police or being gunned down in the street might put a real edge on things, you know?”

Everyone ignored Emma through force of long habit. “Are you sure you're not exaggerating?” Caroline said, looking concerned. “I mean, really, Sam, it doesn't sound that bad. Like, maybe a corporate thing, or I don't know.”

“It's not what he says!” Sam said, frustrated. “It's how he says it. While staring at me. Like he's about to crack my head open on the table and scoop out my brains. And then he will find my brains lacking. He thinks my brains are lacking!”

“Can't argue with that concept right now,” Emma pointed out. “You are having a nervous breakdown about the fact that a creepy guy sat down at your table without an invitation.”  
  
“That is genuinely creepy!”  


“That's being female and remotely attractive!” Emma shot back. “At least he didn't hump you on the dance floor and pretend it was because he stumbled!”

“Classy,” Caroline agreed. “Maybe you and John should avoid dance clubs.”

Margaret took a deep breath. “Look, maybe they're right.” Everyone looked at her, and she seemed unusually serious. Her mobile was in her hands, but she wasn't looking at it.

“Who?” Sam asked, confused.

“Everyone who's telling you to break up.” Margaret fiddled with her mobile, and took a deep breath. “I can't find anything on him.”

“Wait, what?” Caroline asked.

“I could if I had more info, I'm sure of it,” Margaret said, defensive. “But with just a name, and a location, a general age, and an occupation... There's nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“What I said. Nothing. I'm not pulling up anything on the regular databases, or the legal searches, or anything. There are John Watsons, of course, lots of them, it's not exactly an uncommon name, but for John Watson, MD, living in London, I can't find any matches.”

Everyone stared at her, and she stared back, frustration evident on her face. “It's like he doesn't exist. And that doesn't happen. Sure, there are people who don't pop up on Google, but the databases I'm using, the ones we pay to have access to? No. I need more information, because right now, I cannot find any proof that the man you're dating exists.”

“He exists,” Sam insisted. “I mean, I've seen his pay cheques. His flat. People know him!”

“You didn't see his flat, you saw a building that he said he lived in,” Emma pointed out. “Which is not the same thing.”

“I need more info. He's got an account at your bank,” Margaret wheedled.

“No. No, no, no, that is a breach of trust, as well as borderline illegal.” Sam rubbed her forehead. “I can ask him where he went to school, or when his birthday is, but it's not that weird that people have a low online profile, Margaret.”

“This isn't a low profile, it's no profile. And there's two ways you get that. Number one, you don't exist, which means he's married and made up some fake identity for screwing around with adorably naïve bank tellers-”

“Hey!”

“Or two, there's been government intervention to remove all mention of him.”

“Can they do that?” Emma asked, curious. 

“Yeah. They can,” Margaret said, and it sounded like the fact annoyed her.

Caroline leaned back in her chair. “That's it.”

“What's it?”

“He's MI-6.”

Sam gaped at her. “Are you out of your mind? He's not- I'm not dating James Bond!”

“No, you're not, that's the point,” Caroline said, gesturing with her drink. Emma had to duck out of her way when the glass passed just a little too close to her face. “The whole James Bond thing is a crock. That is the last thing they want or need. There is no way Sean Connery or Pierce Brosnon would get hired by MI-6, they're too noticeable. They're too good looking, they stand out too much.

“What MI-6 wants is average. Good looking enough to smooth their way, but not enough to be memorable. Not too tall, not too broad, not too anything. They want average. Just like your John Watson.”

“He's not average,” Sam said, because Caroline, for all of her wild conspiracy theories, was actually making sense, and she did not like when Caroline made sense, because Caroline was unhinged. “He's-”

“He's a ghost online, mysterious women come to collect him in big black cars with drivers, he has some dark haired crazypants following him around, the cops seem to be aware but wary of him, he has a gunshot wound, he's remarkably self-assured in a crisis-”

“He is not a spy!”

“Better than gay porn, right?” Emma paused in the act of taking a sip of her drink. “Do you suppose there's any gay porn of James Bond?”

Everyone looked at her with varying degrees of pity or amusement. “Yes,” Caroline said. “Yes, I do think that a movie series with a villain whose name, in CANON, is Blofeld, kind of lends itself to gay porn parodies.”

“That's a little too easy. What would Watson's be?” Margaret asked.

“Hey!”

“Shut up, Sam,” Caro said, “you're the one dating the undercover secret agent.”

“I am not dating-”

“John Whacks-off,” Emma said, and everyone looked at her. “What? It's a good porn parody name.”

“I hate you all.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Hello! You must be Sam.”

Sam paused, half in and half out of the surgery's lobby. “Ah, yes. Hello.” She offered a hand to the smiling, pretty woman in a lab coat. Other than her, the lobby was deserted, already closed down for the night. Sam had been expecting John to be waiting for her, but as far as bizarre alterations to the plans for their dates, this one was pretty harmless.

Unless this woman tried to stab her or something. The way things were going as of late, Sam wouldn't have been surprised.

“Come on in. I'm Sarah.” She shook Sam's hand, her grip firm and warm. “John's in the back, showering, but he shouldn't be long. There's a bit of a stomach bug going around, and his last patient was, well, let's just say that she was queasy, and leave it at that, shall we?”

Sam was really glad that Sarah didn't offer any other details. Really, really glad.

“I wondered why his calls were going to voice mail,” she admitted, as Sarah locked the door and lead the way into the back of the small office. 

Sarah gave her a grin. “With John, that happens sometimes. Luckily, he's very good about returning calls, once the disaster settles out.” And the look on her face was one that practically screamed, 'I've been in your shoes, I know how these things go.'

Oh, wonderful. An ex-girlfriend. A very, very nice ex-girlfriend, it'd appear, but yeah. That particular statement had 'I know what you're going through' written all over it. Sam paused, considering. She could dance around this, or just deal with it. 

“How long did you go out with him?” Sam asked, because screw it, she'd never been good at maintaining a polite facade. It was so much work, and eventually she forgot and made an idiot out of herself, and why bother. This relationship was exhausting enough without this nonsense.

“Not long,” Sarah said, not looking surprised or bothered by Sam's complete disregard for the social rules. “I couldn't handle it, to be honest. He's amazing, don't get me wrong, but dating him was just-” She shook her head. “Terrifying.”

“Oh, God,” Sam said, her eyes huge. “You understand. You...” When Sarah paused, looking back at her, Sam threw her arms around the other woman, hugging her tight. “You are my new best friend. We've only known each other for five minutes, but I love you.”

There was an awkward pause, and then Sarah started laughing. “You don't even know my last name,” she said, returning Sam's hug with her free arm. “So I doubt your sincerity.”

“No, I'm serious, you are invited to my birthday party. They're excellent parties, I promise, there are little pointy hats and Emma always wears a tiara and there's alcohol and cake.” She paused. “Actually, that also describes our last bar hop.” Shaking her head, she stepped away from Sarah. “I'm not crazy. Or, I guess it's more honest to say that I'm not as crazy as I sound.”

Sarah was giving her a strange, considering look. “Yes, you seem insane. But that may be the only way to successfully date John Watson. Lord knows I couldn't keep my sanity and do it.” Her lips twitched in a smile. “Come on, I've got paperwork to do, and John should be finishing up soon.”

“I'm finished!” a voice called from the far end of the hallway. “Whatever she's telling you, Sam, it's a bloody lie!”

“Do you want to be put on vomiting child duty for the next week?” Sarah called back, laughter in her voice. 

“Do I have a choice?”

“No. I'd like to go home at some point, Watson.”

“Sorry, I forgot my bag in my office, and I do not want to touch these clothes again. Can you grab it for me?”

“Are you naked?” Sam called. 

“There's a towel involved, Sam.”

“So get your bag yourself,” she said, and Sarah laughed.

“Please, we have a reputation to uphold. We cannot have a doctor wandering around naked wrapped in a towel, we'll lose our accreditation.”

“I could lose the towel,” John called.

“We could lose your clean clothes.”

“I sense I'm not going to win this argument,” John said, and there was humor in his voice.

“He's usually smarter than this,” Sarah told Sam. “Stay there, John, I'll show Sam your office and we'll take the opportunity to rifle through your things.”

“Hey, now,” John said, but neither woman was listening any longer. Chuckling, Sarah lead the way to John's office. Pulling out a ring of keys, she flicked through them before unlocking the door.

Curious, Sam peered around her shoulder, checking out the small space. It wasn't a large space, a desk, some cabinets, a door that probably lead to a closet. There wasn't much personal about it, but it was tidy and uncluttered. Sarah crossed the room to open the closet. Making a face, she turned around. “Not here. Cabinet, maybe...”

The filing cabinet was locked, and she checked her keyring. The top drawers were full of files, neatly arranged and precisely labeled, and some basic supplies. The bottom drawer had a simple brown bag, rather like a gym bag, and Sarah pulled it out. “We all keep an emergency bag on site,” she explained, with a smile. “They haven't yet made a lab coat that'll keep you free of stains and most of us hate scrubs.”

In the act of shutting the drawer, she stopped, a sigh audible as she straightened up. Curious, Sam peered over her shoulder, and stopped short.

There was a gun in John's filing cabinet.

Utterly confused, she stared down at the lethal looking thing, almost mesmerized by it. It was a pistol, and it was large, well, she thought it was large pistol, but her experience with guns was, well, non-existant. Which was pretty normal, she thought that was normal, but Sarah didn't seem surprised or worried or anything other than mildly annoyed to find a giant gun in John's filing cabinet.

“I wish he wouldn't bring that into work,” Sarah said with a faint sigh.

And that was all she had to say about it. She took the bag and left the gun, shutting the drawer and relocking it. Sam stared at the closed drawer. Maybe she was going insane. Maybe that was what this was. This whole relationship was just her having a nervous breakdown. 

Sarah must've caught the look on her face, and she shrugged. “I know he's got a permit,” she said. “But he shouldn't bring it here. I wondered why everything was locked up, he doesn't usually bother.”

“Oh,” Sam said, because what the hell was she supposed to say to that? She honestly didn't know. “He does have a permit.” It came out as a statement instead of the question that she'd intended. 

“From the Home Office,” Sarah confirmed. “Here, could you get this so I can relock the door?”

Did that mean something? Sam didn't know. Was that where pistol permits came from? What the hell kind of permit did someone need? What did it give them permission to do, exactly? She hugged John's bag of clothes to her chest with the faint sense that it was the last stable thing in her universe.

Look. Clean clothes. For her naked boyfriend. Who left his gun in the office. His doctor's office.

Sam resisted the urge to check her own breath for signs of drinking. Maybe she was so drunk she'd forgotten she was drinking. Right now, sadly enough, this was the most plausible explanation. 

“Just in the interests of full disclosure, I might be drunk,” Sam told Sarah, who started laughing.

“That's a novel way to deal with this mess,” Sarah agreed. “I wish I'd thought to do that.”

“I take the path of least resistance.” Which is why she was still terrified to actually ask John if, perhaps, he was a government agent of some sort. Or a mobster. She wasn't sure how to slip that into conversation. There was no legitimate lead-in to that particular verbal gambit.

Oh, God, if she wasn't drunk, she really needed to be to attempt that particular conversation. 

“Can you bring that to John?” Sarah asked, nodding at the bag. “Less awkward, you know, and I've got paperwork to finish up.”

“Sure,” Sam said, staring into space. “I can do that.” She looked down at the bag. “I can bring him the clothes in this bag.” She nodded. “I can do this.”

No, she couldn't.

Her primitive little lizard brain was screaming at her to throw the clothes down the hall, head for the nearest exit, and go. Door, window, ventilation shaft, whatever was available. Though with her luck, she'd get stuck half in and half out.

“Sam?”

She jerked her head up, and John was standing there, grinning at her, dressed in a towel and hair still dripping wet. “Sorry,” he said, and his cheekbones were flushed. “I was starting to think that you weren't coming.”

Sam realized she was staring at John's chest. “Ah, what?” she asked.

“Can I have my clothes?” he asked, gesturing at the bag. 

“No,” she said, and that slipped out before she'd realized it was on her lips. “I mean, sorry, yes. Of course, yes.” Blushing pretty bright herself, she held it out to him, and he took it with a grin.

“Thanks, Sam.” There was an instant of frozen silence, as they both just stared at each other. Then John leaned in and brushed a kiss across her lips. It was light and lovely and hot at the same time, and then her brain was just gone. Absolutely gone.

“We left your gun in the cabinet.” And what the hell, why did her brain hate her, why would she say that? Why would that even happen? 

“Oh, yes. Sorry about that,” John said, and held up the bag. “Give me a second to get dressed, all right?”

“Yes, of course.” And it was kind of nice to watch him walk away. Or it would've been, if not for the fact that his wound was worse on the back of his shoulder than it was on the front. Exit wound, she assumed, and her heart stuttered for a second at the sight. That was the sort of wound that was fatal. 

God, if he was a spy, she wasn't going to live through this relationship.

“Sam?” She jumped, because John was back, dressed now, his hair toweled dry. He looked rumpled and adorable and Sam realized she'd been standing in the same spot where he'd left her, her mind completely out to sea, for the whole time it took him to get ready.

Her brain apparently had decided not to bother sticking around. She rather envied it.

“Sorry,” she said, forcing a smile. He leaned over and kissed her, and now her smile felt more natural. Leaning in, she kissed him again, her fingers sliding up his arm. “My mind wandered there for a moment.”

“A little bit,” he agreed. “I should collect my things, then we can go, all right? Chinese okay for dinner?”

And that was her opening, wasn't it? To ask 'so, your things, that's your gun, right? Why do you have a gun, anyway?'

And what came out of her mouth was, “I like Chinese.”

Which was normal, after all, because her rational, thinking brain had left her to fend for herself, and her primitive lizard brain just really liked crab rangoon.

*

“What kind of a gun was it?” Caroline asked, her frustration clear.

“The kind with bullets,” Sam shot back. “Really? Really, we're having this discussion? You heard the part where he has a gun. You heard this part, which is really the only part that matters. He's got a gun.” She clutched her head. “I do not know what to do anymore, because he has a gun, and everyone was like, oh, of course he has a gun, this is his gun, do you need more gun related things? How nice, we're in a surgery and there's deadly weaponry.”

“They have scalpels and things in there anyway,” Emma said. At Sam's insistence, she'd found her tiara. Then she'd put it on Sam. Because that was supposed to make Sam feel better.

Somehow it worked.

“Look, a scalpel is a tool used for helping people. Sick people. A gun is... Not.” Sam stared at the table. She was stacking empty shot glasses in increasingly complex patterns. “A gun is dangerous.”

“Kinda hot though,” Emma said, cheerfully. Sam and Margaret looked at her, with dual expressions of confusion and horror. “What? What?” she said, shrugging. “Shut up.”

“No, she's right, it's hot.” Caroline tugged on Sam's sleeve. “Really. What. Kind. Of. Gun.”

Sam stared at her, eyes narrowing. She took a deep breath. “Silver.”

Caroline's head slammed into the table. “Die in a fire, Sam.”

“That's probably on the schedule for like the third date.”

“Haven't you already had the third date?” Margaret asked. “Emma, Jesus, stop grinning like that, like you are mentally having sex with the man and his gun right now while we're distracted by something else, it's unsavory, the look on your face.”

“God, yes.” Emma put her chin in her hand and purred.

“Stop mentally doing things with my boyfriend,” Sam told her. “Who, now that I think about it, you have never met, and therefore have no idea what he looks like.”

“Who cares? Male, gun, I can work from there.”

“Jesus.”

“What does it matter what kind of gun it is?” Sam asked Caroline.

“Because different people have different guns, government, military, foreign powers-” She stopped, looking at the glazed look on Sam's face. “And none of this is penetrating the alcoholic haze, is it?”

“His ex-girlfriend was really, really nice.” Sam nodded. “We could form a support group. We could meet at the bar and discuss how weird everything is and get drunk and trade naked pictures.”

“Of... Each other or John?”

Sam opened her mouth, paused, and closed it, considering. “I am not sure,” she said at last, but she said it decisively. 

“Less naked pictures, sweetie, especially drunken naked pictures.” Emma patted her on the head, avoiding the points of the tiara. “Just because you're dating a criminal does not mean that you have to give into your baser instincts, because we all know that you will regret them later, because for some reason, you cling to this idea that you are a lady, and ladies do not put naked pictures of themselves up on the internet.” 

“Focus,” Caroline said, just as Sam tipped sideways off of her barstool and crumpled to the ground. “Or maybe not.”

“He's so nice,” Sam said, sounding sad about it. “An' I'm afraid of saying things that'll make him think I'm crazy because none of this is right, none of it makes sense, and the conspiracy theories make sense and I hate it when the conspiracy theories make sense and oh, God, I need to get laid.”

“Not it,” Margaret and Caroline chorused.

“You're both horrible,” Emma told them. “Horrible, unsupportive friends.” She reached down and grabbed Sam's hands, pulling her up without much finesse. But after some struggles and a minor amount of flailing and an even more minor wardrobe malfunction on Sam's part, they were both on their feet.

“After all, if anyone's going to go all lesbian, it's me,” Emma said, proud of herself, her arm around Sam's waist. “Let's go, honey.”

“But I don't wanna be a lesbian,” Sam wailed.

“I know, honey, I rather like boy bits myself, but it'd certainly be safer for you.”

*

John waved at her as he went to take a seat by her office. From the teller line, Sam nodded back, giving him a grin. Surreptitiously, she checked the time on her computer screen, her lunch was scheduled for, well, now. As soon as she could finish with this customer and pull her drawer, she could get out of here.

The bank was sparsely populated today, odd for a lunch hour, but she wasn't going to object. There was nothing more painful than pulling her drawer and leaving the desk when there was a queue. People tended to think that she got to chose her own lunchtime, when nothing was further from the truth.

The new girl next to her waved over the next customer in line, bouncing on her toes. Sam had been watching her all day, Lisa was still learning and she made mistakes, but she was pretty quick and good with the customers. The rest could be taught.

Finishing up her transaction with a smile, Sam handed the man his receipt and put up her 'Next Window Please' sign, bending her head over her drawer. A little too late, she realized that the new girl had gone still. Sam glanced over at her, her heart sinking when she saw the crumbled note on the counter.

The first robbery was always the worst.

She kind of wished that they did a better job screening for this sort of thing, with this job, you were going to get robbed eventually. If you worked at a bank, someone was going to figure out that that's where the money was, and come to get some. If you didn't want some idiot robbing you, then you shouldn't work at a bank. 

Sam looked at Lisa, trying to give her a mental nudge. Give him the money. Give the crazy idiot the money. There's insurance policies for this sort of thing, and almost all bank robbers were dumbasses who eventually got caught, just give him the damn money.

Lisa looked like a deer in the headlights, her whole body screaming that something was wrong. In front of her, the man started to rock back and forth on his feet, nervousness obvious on his face. His arm jerked up, and Sam realized he was holding a wicked looking hunting knife, hidden from the rest of the room by his body. He hissed something at Lisa, and she stumbled back, only a step or two, until she backed into a chair, making it rattle against the nearby cabinets.

Heads came up all over the lobby, and the robber began to jerk, his eyes huge but his pupils pinpricks against the washed out brown of his irises. He mumbled something at them, and Lisa just stared at the knife.

Sam moved in before this could go worse. “Open your drawer,” she whispered to Lisa. “Just open it up and get an envelope.”

“Hey,” the robber said, his arm swinging up, and Sam swallowed as the knife sliced through the air. “This isn't any of your business, bitch!”

“That's enough. Drop it.”

She hadn't even realized John was moving, but suddenly, he was there, a few feet behind the robber. His voice and face were calm, and that was probably because he had his gun out, steadied in a professional looking stance. The robber twisted around, and John met his eyes without flinching. “Drop it,” he repeated, shifting his weight in some tiny way.

The robber let out a roar and lunged, knife coming up, and Sam wasn't sure what happened next. 

John simply stepped to the side, letting the man rush past him, and as he did, John executed a neat twist of his body, one foot snapping out to trip the robber, and his elbow smashing down on the back of the man's neck. The robber went down like a felled tree, and John shifted forward, stomping hard on the man's wrist making the man howl and let the knife go. John kicked it away, and stepped back, re-centering his body and setting his stance again, the gun aimed with ease.

“Hands on your head,” he said, just as calm as ever. He wasn't even breathing hard. The robber did as he was told, and John glanced at Sam. “You okay?” She nodded, and remembered, a little late, to close her gaping mouth. He looked at Lisa. “Miss?”

“I think I love you,” she blurted out.

“Okay,” he said, with an amused smile. “Sam, you want to sit her down and hit whatever panic button I know you have back there?”

“Right.” Sam took Lisa by the shoulders and moved her away from the counter. “John, are you okay?”

“Fine, thanks.” He gave her a wide smile. “Police?”

“Already on the way,” Laurie said from the door of her office. Even from this distance, Sam could see her eyes were huge. “Thank you.”

John gave her a nod. “Of course.”

The police rushed in a few minutes later, swarming towards John and his captive, and as soon as they walked in, John raised his hands above his head, his finger off the trigger of his gun. There was a few seconds of 'who's the problem' before a compact man with dark hair pushed his way to the front of the officers.

“Watson?” he asked, sounding somewhere between shocked and terrified. “What're you doing here? Is there something I should-”

John was already shaking his head. “No, no, I just came to meet someone for lunch. Wrong place, wrong time. How're you, Dimmock?”

The officers turned their attention to dealing with the robber, and John and the nervous looking cop stepped out of their way. John put his gun away as soon as it was clear that no one considered him a threat. 

“Fine, but what're you doing here?” the man, Dimmock, Sam thought, what kind of a name was that? But the police man named Dimmock clearly knew John and it was even more clear that he was not happy to find John here. Holding a gun on a robber. That he had effectively disarmed.

“Meeting someone for lunch,” John repeated, and there was amusement in his voice. He inclined his head in Sam's direction, and when Dimmock followed his gesture, Sam gave him a tight smile and a little finger-wiggling wave.

“Hi,” she said. “I, um, I'm lunch. I'm the one he was meeting for lunch,” she said, her face heating. “Oh, God.”

John's smile was twitching, but he didn't laugh at her. “She's my lunch date,” he said, and the amusement was there in his voice, but it wasn't malicious, and Sam wondered if it was acceptable to crawl under the counter. 

“Could you help the police with the rest of the customers?” Laurie asked, moving around behind the counter to pat Lisa ineffectually on the shoulder. “I have to stay with her when she's interviewed by the police, it's company policy.”

“Of course.” Sam gave Lisa a firm smile. “Almost done, pet, don't worry, the first time is the hardest.”

“The FIRST time?” she wailed, and Laurie gave Sam a dirty look. Maybe leaving would be a good idea.

She hustled around the counter, passing by John and Dimmock just in time to hear the latter say, “You don't understand, I have to call it in. There are rules, once you're involved, I have to call it in.”

“No. You really don't. I'm not involved,” John said, his voice pitched low. “There is no involvement. I happened to be standing in the lobby when something happened, that is not involvement.”

Dimmock did not look convinced. “There are rules. I'm sorry. I have to call it in, and if you're not here when he gets here, you know he'll track you down. Probably with a warrant.”

“Oh, for God's sake! I don't need another goddamn ASBO!” John threw his hands up, and Sam shot by them before he could realize that she was eavesdropping.

There had to be a perfectly logical explanation for that discussion. Didn't there? There had to be. It was normal to have that kind of conversation with a cop, not that Sam had ever had any conversation even close to that, but still, normal. Right?

Yeah, that wasn't normal.

Mrs. Desir was not pleased that the presence of a knife wielding hooligan had prevented her from depositing her pension cheque, and she was letting the poor officer know about it. Sam, who'd dealt with the cranky old biddy more than once, and honestly liked her, tried to run interference. She was a little depressed that the police managed to cuff, process and remove the robber from the building before Sam even got Mrs. Desir to stop pretending to have a heart attack.

She was crouched down in front of the elderly lady, both of them half hidden by a potted tree, when the front door flew open with a crash. Sam jumped, and Mrs. Desir dropped her purse, and the polite police woman who'd been trying to help pressed herself back against the wall. “Oh, Christ,” Sam heard her mutter. “Lestrade's in a mood.”

Lestrade, and Sam assumed that was who the tall, broadly built man with the silver hair and the scowl was, was most certainly in a mood. It wasn't a good one, judging by his scowl, the jumping muscle in his jaw, and the way his eyes were spitting fire. He stalked across the lobby, and everyone, officer and civilian alike, got the hell out of his way.

“Watson!” he bellowed, and John heaved a visible sigh, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling. Dimmock, showing a sense of self-preservation, found somewhere else to be.

“Hello, Greg,” John said, not the least bit ruffled by the big, raging copper that was bearing down on him. 

“What the hell, Watson? What the HELL?” Lestrade folded his arms over his chest. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Not last I looked,” and John sounded like he was holding back a laugh, still. “It's fine, Greg, really, I was here to-”

“It's not fine. Whenever something like this happens, every goddamn line I've got lights up. My subordinates get calls. My boss gets calls. Everyone gets calls. Alert the media!”

“Don't even suggest it, they might.” John made a placating gesture, holding his hands up, palms spread wide. “It's fine, I was meeting someone for lunch, I was barely involved.”

“Yeah, we all know how that goes.” Lestrade jerked his head at the door. “Let's go.”

“Did you miss the part where I said I was meeting someone for lunch?”

“Nope, just don't care.” Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “I can drag you in as a material witness, and you know it, so let's just come along without a fight, shall we?”

“You're being ridiculous,” John said, rubbing his forehead. “I didn't even shoot anyone.”

“Thank God for small mercies,” Lestrade said. “Why were you even carrying?”

“He found my most recent hiding place and shot out all the lightbulbs.”

“You need to keep company with a better quality of people, John, one of these days, he's going to kill you,” Lestrade said, lips kicking up in a reluctant smile. “Let's go.”

“Lestrade-”

“Twenty-one phone calls in ten goddamn minutes,” Lestrade snapped, his voice like the crack of a whip. “You have no idea the chaos you cause simply by being in the vicinity of a problem, and I value my skin and my spine and my job, so you're going to march out the door, and get in the damn squad car, and come back to the Met, or, I swear to God, you'll be going in handcuffs.”

John's mouth pursed, head tipping forward. He seemed to be considering, and then sighed. “Fine. I'm not going to win this one.”

“No, you're not.” Lestrade tucked his hands in the pocket of his coat. “I'll wait for you outside, then. You've got five minutes, or I'll be back in here with the cuffs.”

“Wonderful.” John glanced around, and Sam ignored the panicked feeling in her chest for long enough to stand up, as if she'd been occupied with Mrs. Desir the entire time.

John spotted her and headed in her direction. “Hi,” he said, as she straightened her skirt. “Look, I'm sorry, I need to go down to the Met and give my statement.”

“Of course,” Sam said, giving him a concerned smile. “You're not in trouble or anything, are you?” Lestrade brushed past them both, tapping a blunt tipped finger on the glass surface of his wrist watch. Sam swallowed, a little harder than necessary.

“No more than usual,” John said, with a grin, and when she didn't smile back, he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “It's fine,” he said, and his voice was comforting and gentle. “Just a witness statement. I'll call you this afternoon, all right?”

Sam nodded. “Al right.” She managed a faint smile as he nodded back, and with a wave, jogged out the front door.

“Is that your young man?” Mrs. Desir asked, curiosity sharp in her dark eyes. “Seems like a pleasant chap.”

Against the wall, the police woman gave a snort, it sounded like she was choking on something, and when Sam looked in her direction, she covered her mouth with one hand. “If you've got this in hand,” she said, lamely, “I'll just be off?”

“Please do.” Sam gave her a tight lipped smile. As soon as she turned away, Sam was moving in what she hoped was a subtle way towards the door. Slipping out, she stared down at the police cruiser, trying to catch one last glimpse of John before it pulled away.

As the car moved away from the curb, she sighed, and turned, about to go back inside, when her eye was caught by a tall, dark figure. She froze, and for an instant, she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her.

If anything, he was even more unearthly looking in the late afternoon sunlight. His skin was milky pale, eyes glinting a pale gray-blue, even at this distance. He raised one hand and wiggle his fingers at her, his mouth turning up in a smile that seemed predatory, dangerous.

Sam clutched the handle of the door, struggling against the impulse to just run, to scamper back inside like a frightened rabbit, find a hole and hide. He knew it, too, she could see the innate understanding in the way his mouth stretched, the smile becoming a slashing grin that showed off a large number of bright, white teeth, stark against his pink lips.

His eyes slid in the direction the car had gone, and without thinking, Sam followed his gaze. A bus rumbled past, startling her, and when her eyes swung back to the street corner, he was gone, evaporated as if he'd never been there at all.

As if he was a figment of her imagination.

*

“I take it back. He is a vampire. He's a freakin' vampire. One of the stupid, glittery ones. Like, okay, daylight is fine, but I will be pretty and glow and sparkle and holy shit, I am not dealing with this well, am I?”

Margaret pushed another glass in front of her, removing the empty one. “It'll make more sense after a little more booze.”

“I don't think that's right,” Emma said. She took off her oven mitts. “I also don't think he's a vampire.”

“Vampire or alien or holy hell, I don't know what he is, but he is severely creeping me out!” Sam yelled, and grabbed the glass to throw it back. 

“John took out an armed assailant?” Caroline said, arching an eyebrow. “That's pretty badass, actually. I think I like this guy.”

Sam took a deep breath. “I am having a nervous breakdown here!”

“Booze'll fix that.”

“Cupcakes,” Emma said, checking the oven again. “Sugar and alcohol. It'll be fine.”

“What are you basing this on?” Sam asked her. “Really. What, exactly, are you basing this on?”

“General sense of optimism,” Emma admitted. “Look, honey, really, you can't keep doing this. If you can't handle the situation, and it does seem like a long way to go to get laid-” She paused, looked at Sam. “You... Are getting laid, aren't you?”

“Shut up!”

“Oh, dear.” The pity was so clear in her voice that Sam just wanted to fling something at her head like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “So, anyway, it's a long way to go for pleasant dinner companionship.” She gave Sam a faint smile. “Maybe you should just break up with him.”

“Are you kidding me?” Sam asked, clutching her drink. “He's the nicest guy I've ever dated! He's amazing!”

“And you're drinking heavily on a weekday,” Caroline said. “Far more than usual. You're having a great time when he's around. And the rest of the time, you're miserable. You can't keep this up, hon.”

“I totally can.” Sam glared, her eyes blurry, at the shot glass. “He's totally a spy, isn't he?”

“Yeah, I think that's a pretty safe bet,” Emma said. “Which is pretty cool.”

“Until he gets shot in Hungary!” 

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Caro asked, rubbing her forehead. “We need you to focus. Focus on reality, and not repeated viewings of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy.”

“He's gonna die,” Sam said, and she sniffled as the first tears started rolling down her cheeks. “He's going to be shot down in the street by a double agent. Disavowed. Oh, GOD!”

“I don't think cupcakes can fix this,” Margaret said.

“Don't be stupid,” Emma snapped. “Cupcakes fix everything.”

“Sam. Samantha.” Caroline grabbed her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Snap out of it! Are you crazy? Do not freak out, he is not going to get shot. Jesus, now you're just being stupid.”

Sam sniffed. “Promise?”

“Yes, I swear. He is not going to get shot.”

*

“Are they shooting at us?” Sam said, and she was very, very proud of herself for the fact that her voice did not wobble like a small child's. There was an unpleasant shrieky note in there, but people were shooting at her. She was pretty sure that she got to be a little overwrought in under the circumstances.

Okay, so, it was only one or two shots. Two, she was pretty sure it had been two, not like bullets were raining down on them, but she it was way more bullets than she'd been expecting to be dodging when she showed up for a date of Thai food and a gallery showing.

Most art galleries frowned on the exchange of small weapons fire. And she didn't attend openings at the ones that encouraged it.

“Unfortunately, yes.” John put his hand on her head and pushed her down, and she allowed him to press her into a crouch, her back up against the wall and her body curled into a ball. “Stay down.”

“I was not planning on getting up,” she whispered, and it sounded very, very scared. “John?”

“Yes?” He was pressed up against the alley wall, peering around the corner as carefully as he could. 

“Why are they shooting at us?”

“It probably has more to do with me, than you.” He gave her a faint smile. “Sam, they're coming this way.” He had his mobile out, and judging by the hushed conversation that she had mostly missed because her brain was going 'oh God oh God oh God oh God, I'm going to DIE' and everything else was just background noise, he'd already called for help. Now, he was putting the mobile in her hands, folding her fingers around them. “Do me a favor, put this in your bra, and give me yours. Mine has a tracker in it, Mycroft denies it, but he's full of lies, so yes. There's a tracker in it.” He took her mobile, tucking it in his pocket. “Thank god it's not pink.”

She giggled, and it sounded a little hysterical. “Why- Why do you want me to take yours?” Her fingers were shaking, but she did as he told her, tucking it in her bra, under the curve of her breast. It was a little lumpy, but not noticeable under her jacket.

“Because they'll search me for mine, they might not pay any attention to you at first. If they ask you for it, give it to them, don't fight them, don't lie, just give it up. But the longer we keep it, the better chance we'll have of being traced.”

Sam swallowed. “You think they're going to kidnap us?”

“I think they're gonna try.” He grabbed her hand. “I need you to run. When I say run, I need you to go, don't look back, don't stop, just go. They're not interested in you.”

“Why are they interested in you?” she said, her voice breaking.

“I've made some bad choices in my life,” John said, and for a moment, he sounded like he was on the edge of laughing. “You know what your mum said, about being judged by the company you keep? She was correct.” There was a shout from the end of the alley, and the roar of a car's engine, and John grabbed Sam's arm. “Run, now.”

She took off running, John right on her heels.

Sam wasn't really thinking about much other than 'this cannot possibly be my life,' and maybe that was normal for a kidnapping attempt, Sam wasn't sure because she'd never lived through one before. Of course, maybe she was being optimistic, maybe she wasn't going to live through this one, either. There was really no way to tell, maybe this was it, she was going to die in a London alley that smelled vaguely of urine and while wearing embarrassing panties that Emma had given her as a gag gift.

Yeah, this might be the universe's punishment for putting on a bright pink thong.

And then John's hand was on her back, shoving her along, arm going around her shoulders and dragging her along, despite her heels despite the fact that she had no idea how she was still running, but she was, because John was making her. His arm slid down, around her waist, and he lifted her right off of her feet, swinging her around and she screamed, the sound shocked out of her.

John took a hard right, into a gap between two buildings that Sam hadn't even known was there, and apparently, neither had the their pursuers, because someone was screaming obscenities behind them, in a couple of different languages. Sam was pretty sure they were obscenities, because it certainly did not sound like a polite introduction or an invitation to dinner.

Her feet were back on the ground, and running, and she didn't know where she was supposed to be going, but she was with John, and if she had to do this, at least she wasn't alone. Her fingers found the sleeve of his coat and clung, her nails digging into the fabric. Her breath was coming in low, raw sobs, and she swallowed them down, because the least she could do here was not dissolve into a caricature of a hysterical damsel.

Yeah, she didn't want to even think about that. Thinking about it just might make it happen.

She was slowing him down, she knew it, but she couldn't go any faster, and he wouldn't let go of her, and maybe they could make it, maybe they could do this, and maybe she should just be glad that they weren't shooting at her, or him, any more. John pulled her around another corner, and her heels made her go sideways, scrambling and almost falling, but he was there, keeping her on her feet and hauling her forward when she couldn't do it herself.

Sam realized that the mobile was vibrating like a mad thing in her bra, stopping and starting, stopping and starting as someone desperately tried to get her to pick up. She didn't dare to let go of John long enough to fumble for it. She was just grateful for the proof that it was still there, and if John was right, someone was trying to find them, someone could use it to find them.

John pulled her around a corner, and there was a car there, and she knew, with the clarity of sudden understanding, that yes, she was about to get kidnapped. 

Three men in ski masks and black jackets were on them in an instant, one from the front and two coming up behind them. Sam's arm was grabbed by one of their pursuers, the grip brutal and hard, and she was yanked away from John before either one of them could do anything. John took a swing at the nearest attacker, and was tackled for his trouble. He managed to land a solid kick in the knee of the man standing over him, but before Sam could do much more than scream, he was being wrestled into the back of a car.

The man holding her arm jerked her forward, and she stumbled on her high heels, her weight catching him off guard.. He stopped, off-balance, and Sam jerked her arm up, catching him right in the nose with her elbow. His fingers went slack, and she wrenched her arm free from his grip, almost landing on her face as she got herself loose. Stumbling, shaking, she darted away from them, making a break for the street, where there was light and noise and help.

There was shouting behind her, and she wondered, just for an instant, if they'd give her any warning before they shot her in the back, and she didn't care, because running was better than standing here, waiting for them to shove her in a car boot.

Or put a bullet in her head.

Her heels were not made for running, but she was doing pretty damn well for herself, heading for the street, when the familiar dark form of John's stalker appeared there, silhouetted in the street lights, and she wanted to cry. She wanted to break down sobbing, because there were idiots with guns behind her, and they'd taken John, and oh, God, she wanted to do something, do anything, and in front of her was him, and he didn't seem to be armed, and he'd never grabbed her or hurt her, or done anything to her, but she was a hell of a lot more frightened of him than the idiots with the guns.

Before she could freeze, before she could turn back, break down sobbing or just scream, he held out a hand. “Sam!”

And just like that, the decision was made. She doubled her efforts, throwing herself forward with all the strength in her legs, and he was there, catching her arm, swinging her behind him. Sam choked back a sob as he moved forward, stepping in front of her and meeting the onrushing attacker who'd been right on her heels head on. His fist plowed forward, and the man actually seemed to hang in mid-air for an instant, as his legs, his body kept moving forward, and his head came to an abrupt stop. He went down in a heap, and John's stalker was jumping over his prone body, long legs chewing up the ground 

But the auto was already in motion, pulling away with a squeal of tires, and no matter how fast he was moving, Sam knew it wasn't going to be fast enough. Still, he tried for longer than she thought was possible, only pulling back when the car took the turn onto the street at the far end of the alley. As soon as the way was clear, the auto accelerated and was gone.

Sam realized the man on the ground was moving, stumbling to his feet, grabbing for the alley wall. “Hey!” she yelled, which wasn't a good idea, because they both looked at her, and wow, that wasn't what she'd wanted, because the guy in the ski mask was a lot closer to her than John's stalker. A lot, lot closer.

She took a step back, her ankle wobbling, and she wished, for about the tenth time in the last ten minutes, that she hadn't worn heels tonight.

But the criminal clearly wanted nothing to do with them, and he shoved past her, more interested in escaping than tangling with the furious force of will that was now running straight for him. Sam stumbled, bouncing her shoulder into the wall, and that hurt. That hurt, and she was suddenly furious. Teeth gritted, she found her balance and lunged.

Her weight wasn't enough to stop him, but as she latched onto his back, her hands clutched in his shirt, in his hair, anything she could reach to get a grip. She let out a scream that she was going to be very, very embarrassed about later, and she slowed him down. That was all she needed to do, just slow him down, because the dark haired man in the long black coat was a vengeful streak of barely restrained power, and he caught up to them in a matter of seconds.

Before she knew what was happening, she was being plucked off the criminal's back and set back on her feet, and then the two men were crashing together into the wall. The masked man had his arm twisted up behind his back, his face jammed into the brick with a harsh hand, and John's friend or enemy or stalker or backup or whatever the hell he was, Sam no longer knew, he was pinning the criminal there with his weight. Whatever he lacked in physical bulk, right now, he was making up for it with force of will and rage.

“Where are they taking him?” he snarled, and his voice was so low, so raw, that Sam shivered, huddled against the wall on the other side of the alley.

The criminal said something, too low for Sam to hear, and whatever it was, it didn't meet with the other man's approval. “Where?” he said again.

The masked man's head lolled to the side, and he started laughing.

“I'll give you one last chance. Where.”

Whatever response he got, he didn't like it, and with a swift, violent move, he grabbed the back of the mask, and shoved the man's head against the brick. There was a sickening sort of crunch, and the man crumbled to the pavement. “That was tedious,” the dark haired man gritted out. “Come along, Sam.”

She stared at him as he reached out a hand, palm up, fingers out, and she swallowed. He arched one dark eyebrow. “You can't stay here, and I have to find John. Now, Sam.” It was a command, and he was used to being obeyed, she could see that on his face, but he didn't grab her, he didn't threaten her, he just stood there, hand outstretched, impatience in his eyes.

She didn't even remember putting her hand in his, but she must've done it, because his fingers were closing around hers, warm and strong. He pulled her forward, but it didn't hurt, it was firm and in some weird way comforting. 

Oh, God, how could Stockholm Syndrome have kicked in this fast? She was susceptible to being needy while under stress, she knew that about herself, but this was just ludicrous. 

But he was pulling her along, and she was stumbling along in his wake, clinging to his hand like it was a lifeline, and she wanted to cry, but she didn't, she wouldn't, that wouldn't help anything, and then there were police cars and flashing lights and he came to a halt so fast that she actually ran into his back. She was pretty sure that she made an embarrassing sort of 'oof' noise. He didn't seem to notice.

“Lestrade!” he yelled. “Take her, I don't have time to babysit!”

And just like that, she was being thrust against a solid, broad body. Firm hands caught her upper arms, holding her up, and her chin jerked up, blinking in a rather stupid way at the silver-haired cop who'd shown up at her bank after the robbery. He held onto her with ease, and his eyes slid over her face, her body, a quick, clinical check for injury or maybe weaponry.

“Hey, where are you-” He was yelling, but it wasn't at her. Sam flinched, anyway, it was too loud, too close, and she was so close to tears that she didn't even want to say anything. “You can't just go chasing after them! It'll-” He stopped, seeming to realize that the dark haired man was already gone. He sighed, and glanced down at Sam, his hands still holding her shoulders.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice calm and even, and she managed a nod. “You're John's girlfriend, right? I remember seeing you at the bank; he was meeting you for lunch, he said.”

“Yes.” She swallowed. “They took him.” She sucked in breath, trying to keep herself under control. “They took him.” Her fingers closed on Lestrade's wrists, her nails digging in. “Please. They took him.”

“Okay,” he said, and his voice was gentler now, his eyes kind. “It's okay. Sam, it's Samantha, isn't it?” He shifted her around, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and steering her towards a nearby ambulance. “We're going to find him. Are you hurt at all?”

“No.” She leaned against him, just a little. “No, I'm fine. John distracted them so that I could run away.” She felt her face twist, and she ducked her head. “I just... I just left him there,” she said, and she felt a tear slide down her cheek. “Oh, God, I just left him.”

“Exactly what you should've done,” Lestrade said, his hand tightening on her shoulder. One of paramedics had seen them coming, and as he sat her down on the rear bumper of the ambulance, she felt a heavy blanket being wrapped around her shoulders. She shuddered, but Lestrade crouched down in front of her. “Look at me, Sam. John's tough, and he's smart, and he's been through this before.” He winced, just a little, as he took Sam's hands. “A bit too often, really, but he wanted you to get away. I promise you, that's exactly what he wanted, and now he doesn't have to worry about what they could do to you to get him to comply.”

She bit her lip to keep from sobbing. She ducked her head, and Lestrade squeezed her hands. “I left him.”

“Good,” Lestrade said. “Because you saw them, and you saw the car, and we can't trust that boneheaded idiot to come back, so I need you to tell me everything.” He jostled her hands, bringing her head up. “Can you do that for me, Sam?” 

She sucked in a breath, and straightened up. “Yes.” She could. She could do that. She stared at Lestrade, her chin coming up, ignoring the cold wet skin of her cheeks. “What do you need to know?”

“Good girl,” he said, his voice approving. And he was right. Sam could do this.


	3. Chapter 3

“Ms. Carter?”

Sam's eyes snapped open, and for an instant, she didn't know where she was, or how she got there, but her head was aching and her eyes felt like they were full of grit. Her head jerked around, and she blinked up at the pretty woman with long, curling hair that was hovering over her. “Yes?” she said, and she hoped that she didn't sound as disoriented as she felt.

The woman seemed to understand, and she gave Sam a smile. “I'm Sgt. Sally Donovan, one of DI Lestrade's team? He's just called in; we've recovered Watson, safe and sound.”

Sam stared at her, and then, everything came rushing back to her. “Oh, God,” she said, her voice a raw whisper, and then she flung herself forward, hugging the surprised policewoman with all the strength in her arms. The woman stiffened for a second, then relaxed enough to pat Sam lightly on the back. “Thank you,” Sam choked out. “Thank you so much.”

“I didn't have anything to do with it,” Donovan said, and Sam collapsed back onto the couch. 

“Still, thank you.” Sam ran a shaking hand through her hair. Lestrade had brought her back to the Yard to finish the paperwork, and take an official statement. She remembered sitting on the couch in his office, waiting for news as he spoke with someone just outside the door. Her exhaustion must've gotten the better of her, judging by the fact that she remembered nothing else, and a blanket was covering her legs.

“He's all right?” Sam asked now, still needing the reassurance.

“I haven't seen him, sorry. But he's at the hospital now, getting checked over. I'm sure that if he was injured or in any way in danger, they would've waited to speak to you in person.” Donovan gave her a faint smile. “He's probably used to it by now, to be honest.”

“Sorry, what?” Sam said, staring up at him. “Has this... Has this happened before?” She remembered, vaguely, someone saying something like that. Lestrade. She'd been freaking out too much to pay attention, at the time, but yes, now, now that she wasn't worries about him being dead or dying, that is what he'd said. That this had happened before. Too often.

Of course, Sam considered once to fall into the category of 'too often.'

“What, Watson getting grabbed? At least six times that I know of, but it may be more than that.” Donovan shrugged. “It's an occupational hazard for him. He's a-” She stopped short, as if remembering who she was talking to. She gave Sam a tight lipped smile. “I'll see if I can get you some more information.”

“Thank you.” Sam glanced at the phone on Lestrade's desk. Lestrade had taken John's mobile from her, and John still had hers, or she thought he did. He should. She wondered if he still did. It was old, but she liked it. Of course, if he still had it... “Can I make a call? Please?”

“Sure.” Donovan crossed to the phone and prepped a line, holding the receiver out to Sam. “Just dial as normal, all right?”

“Thanks.” Sam gave her a faint smile and, waiting for Donovan to leave the office, pulling the door mostly shut behind her, she dialed her own mobile number. 

It was picked up on the second ring. “Hello, Ms. Carter.”

A faint smile twitched at her lips. “So I'm back to being Ms. Carter now?” she asked the dark haired man, somehow not surprised that he was the one who'd picked up. 

“You're dialing from Lestrade's office, so you're in no immediate danger,” he drawled, his voice pitched low. “So I believe our momentary truce is at an end, don't you agree?”

“Is John all right?” she asked, her fingers clutching at the phone with a little too much force.

“A light blow to the head, a few bruises, nothing to be concerned about,” he said. “He's under observation for tonight, just to be safe.” A faint pause. “He asked after you.”

“Did you tell him I was all right?”

“I did, and so did Lestrade.” Another pause. “I'm sure he'll be speaking to you tomorrow, but for night, I'm sorry, he's not available to take your call.” There was a silky thread of humor to the words, but she didn't take offense to that.

“You're sitting by his bedside, aren't you?” she said, her voice uncertain. She still wasn't sure about this. About him.

There was a faint sigh. “Lestrade, could you assure John's lady friend that I will not, as a matter of fact, kill John in his sleep.”

“What?” Sam asked.

“What?” a low, rough voice responded back. “Ms. Carter? It's DI Lestrade.”

The tension went out of her shoulder as the voice rolled over her, gruff and somehow comforting. The man sounded like he'd been through worse. She had the feeling that he had a cup of nasty hospital coffee in his hand. “Don't worry, miss. Watson's got a hard head, and I'll make sure that any scolding waits until he's awake and able to defend himself.”

She nodded, forgetting he couldn't see it. “Thank you.” She paused, bit her lip. “That man,” she whispered at last. “Is he going to be arrested?”

“Who, John? Oh, you mean the idiot in the chair next to me. No. Much as I'd like to, I can never manage to make the charges stick.” He chuckled. “Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on him. He's harmless. Here, he wants the phone back.”

“Wait, no!” 

“Too late,” the low, silky voice said. “I'm hurt that you don't want to talk to me, Ms. Carter.”

“You are-” She bit back a scream. “Really. I am not kidding, don't you-” 

“Yes, yes, John's fine. Didn't you hear the nice officer, Ms. Carter? I'm harmless.” The word was a low, throaty purr of sensation and she shuddered. 

She sucked in a long breath. “Don't...” Her jaw tightened. She didn't know what to think anymore. “Don't let anyone hut him.”

There was a long pause. “That wouldn't suit my purpose, so I suppose we are in agreement on that point.”

“Take care of him, please.” She paused, and her heart staggered to a stop in her chest. “Oh, God. You've got my phone.”

“Yes. And I've already gone through all of your photos and anything else of interest. It did not take long.”

Sam gritted her teeth. “Don't you dare-”

“Good night, Ms. Carter,” he said, sounding smug, and then the line went dead.

Sam stared into space for a long moment. Then, exhausted and pained, she went looking for Sgt. Donovan, to see if she could go home yet.

*

“I cannot believe that story. Are you on drugs?”

“You had to come collect me from the Met!” Sam said to Caro, glaring. “Not that you were in anyway useful! I should've called Margaret first thing, you were useless!”

“I have never posted bail for anyone before,” Caroline groused. “I didn't realize it was that hard.”

“I didn't need bail!” Sam groaned. She'd managed to hold it together until Caroline got her home to her flat. Emma and Margaret had been waiting for them to arrive, and there, surrounded by her friends, she'd collapsed into hysterical tears. Sobbing, almost howling with it, she'd let them all crowd around and make soothing noises until she finished embarrassing herself. Then she'd drunk the glass of water that Margaret had given her, eaten the pink frosted cupcake that Emma had pressed into her hand, and fallen sleep on the couch with her head in Caroline's lap, Caro's hand light and delicate on her hair. She'd slipped into an unconsciousness that was more than sleep without even so much as putting on her pajamas or brushing her teeth.

None of them had left.

Luckily, it was Saturday the next day, and no one had to work, so there was time to get herself together, to tell them the story while Margaret made pancakes and Caroline sliced fruit and Emma set the table. Sam had been sent away to change into something less terrifying. She'd found fuzzy pajama pants and a t-shirt and that was about all she was capable of putting on. The story took far longer to tell than she would've thought, but the complete lack of belief on everyone's part made her life meant that she had to stop over and over and reiterate that no, she was not making any of this up.

Was it really so hard to believe that she'd spent the night getting shot at, nearly getting kidnapped, then being rescued by the John's possibly insane stalker?

“Yes,” Emma said, and Sam jolted, realizing she'd spoken aloud. “Yes, it's very difficult to believe, because that is crazy talk. Jesus, Sam.”

“I don't like it any more than you do,” Sam pointed out. She scrubbed both hands across her face. “I know it sounds crazy. I know it does. But at least Senor Crazypants and Scarf Combo wasn't shooting at me, and, I don't know, he's got good taste in people to stalk, so it seemed like a better plan than staying there and getting dragged, kicking and screaming, into someone's car.”

“Or getting shot,” Caroline said.

“Or getting shot,” Sam agreed. “I cannot tell you how much I didn't want to get shot. Oh, god, I did not want to get shot.”

“Nice to know that you've still got that wonderful sense of self-preservation,” Caroline said, and it was clear that she was trying not to laugh. She wasn't being particularly successful at it, and Sam stuck her tongue out at her friend.

“But still-” Emma started, and Sam held up her hands.

“No,” she said, and it was calm, but firm. “No. It's done. I know it, I just have to-” Her eyes watered, and she blinked hard. “I'm a wimp.”

“Honey, I think we can all agree that you were amazingly patient. And brave. Because I would've blocked his calls after the first date,” Emma said, hugging her. “It's okay, baby.”

Sam sniffle against her shoulder. “I don't wanna break up with him.”

“You kinda have to, honey.” Emma kissed her forehead. “You know that, don't you?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, her shoulders slumping. She sat up, exhausted. “Is there coffee?”

“Yeah, but no milk,” Caroline said. “I'm sorry, I used the last of it for the pancakes.”

Feeling like she should be doing something, because, honestly, being useful was good, Sam stood up. Her knees wobbled a little, but held. “I'll go grab some from the corner shop, that'll give you all time to discuss my obvious mental disorders and how you're going to trick me into therapy.”

“Oh, is that what we're calling the pub this week?” Margaret asked, eyebrows arching. Despite sleeping in an armchair fully dressed, she somehow managed to look daisy fresh and perfectly put together. Sam, who was in her own flat and still couldn't do better than a pair of pink pajama pants covered in a doughnut pattern and with a hole in one knee, kind of resented that. 

“I call the pub my one true love, and shut up.” Sam stared down at herself, and sighed. “I'm just gonna get a damn jacket and go. I can do that, right? These pajama pants are appropriate for, you know, going out?”

“Not in the least,” Margaret said. “Maybe you should-”

“Great, thanks, wonderful!” Buttoning her jacket, Sam found shoes, jammed her bare feet into them and stalked for the door. “I will be back in fifteen minutes.”

“Take my phone,” Caroline said, pressing it into her hand. “Since yours is-”

“Going now!” Sam yelled and stomped out the door. She was pretty sure the 'how to solve a problem like Sam's love life?' nun-time sing-along started before she made it down the steps to the front door, but she didn't care. Okay, so she cared, she cared a lot, but what could she do, other than grit her teeth, keep her head down and wait for them to be distracted by IMDB, tumblr or a passing squirrel.

She estimated that it would take about half an hour, if she could keep from getting goddamn kidnapped, so she'd just walk slow and avoid guys in ski masks or scarves.

Of course, the envelope on her front stoop with her name on it was going to make that a little difficult. 

Briefly, she considered punting it into traffic, or just finding a rock and smashing it. The rock option seemed like a good plan. She liked the rock plan, and her primitive lizard brain liked smashing things. The rock was just a bonus.

Her rational brain forced her to lean over and pick up the bulky envelope. Her name was written on the outside in a strong, bold script, impatient lines of black ink cutting through the white surface of the envelope. The weight was familiar, and she knew even before she pried the flap up that her phone was inside.

It slid into her hand, unharmed, and she almost burst into tears again, because this had been with John, and it was fine, it was fine and it was back with her, and everything was okay, it was fine. She unlocked it, and it had been charged, and reset, and she wanted to kill him for touching it, the bloody bastard.

And her background was a shot of John in a hospital bed, eyes closed, stark white plaster on his forehead, but his face was relaxed, his lips curled up in a faint smile, and he was there, right there on her phone. Safe and sound, and when the first teardrop fell on the screen, it honestly surprised her. Sam jerked back, scrubbing at her eyes with her free hand, swallowing hard.

When her vision was clear again, she stared down at the screen, a faint smile curling her lips, her heart aching. “You should just tell him and stop being goddamn creepy,” she said aloud, knowing he was there, somewhere. She hadn't seen him, but she never saw him, unless he wanted to be seen, and she knew he was there, waiting for her to find this. “Who are you, what have you done to him that you can't just tell him that you're scared for him? Don't tell me this is about me, it's not, or not really. Is it? You're watching him. Always watching him. Why don't you just-” She bit off the words. “This is a stupid male thing, isn't it?”

There was no reply, just the faint sound of pigeon wings and the occasional car rolling by somewhere in the neighborhood. Another tear tried to sneak out, and she scrubbed at it. “I'm almost tempted to say screw you and just keep dating him to spite you,” she said, and her voice rose a bit at the end, and goddamn, she hated that, hated that she was such a wimp. “Tell him, or I will.”

One of her neighbors walked by, walking his tiny annoying yappy dog, and avoiding meeting Sam's gaze. She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I'm standing on the curb talking to myself in pajamas,” she grumbled. “Suck it up. I no longer care.”

The walk to the corner store seemed to take forever, because she was just trudging along, head down, mind a mess of 'should I or shouldn't I?' and she was so overwhelmingly depressed, it wasn't even funny. She wasn't in a rush, really, she took her time about picking her milk, like this was something that took actual brain power, and wandered the store for a while before she paid for it.

And headed back home feeling like she was going to her own execution.

She was within view of her flat, lost in her thoughts, when someone touched her arm from behind. She let out a shriek and turned, arm coming up, and she nearly hit John in the face with her bag of milk. He dodged at the last second, and her aim was pretty off to begin with, and they both sprang apart, surprise on both their faces.

“Sorry,” John said, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Sorry, sorry, I was calling your name, I thought you'd heard me coming, I didn't mean to scare you, Sam. It's-”

With a choked off sob, Sam threw herself against him, her arms going around his neck, the bag of milk hitting him in the back, and she hugged him tight, burying her face in his neck. “Oh, God, oh, God, you're all right,” she managed, her whole body shaking. “They said you were, but oh, God, I was so scared, I'm so glad you're all right, John-” She pulled back, staring up at his face with wet cheeks and huge eyes. “You are all right, aren't you? You're fine, you're not hurt, oh, God, did I hurt you?”

He was laughing, just a little, not at her, but a relieved little laugh. “I'm fine,” he said, eyes warm and dancing. “I'm fine, Sam, I promise, just a knock on the head, you got away, they told me you got away?”

“I'm sorry,” she said, chewing on her lower lip, and he hugged her tight.

“No, don't be, that's what I was hoping for, honestly, I was relieved they didn't get you.” He leaned over and kissed her, light and soft and she opened her lips under even that slight pressure, and the next thing she knew, she was seriously making out with the man on the street in front of her flat.

The neighbor with the terrier walked past again, head down, staring at his dog with a ludicrous amount of focus. It was pretty laughable, but Sam was well aware that the fact that she'd pretty much been crawling up John's front was going to be all over the neighborhood by sunset.

“My life was so normal before I met you,” she gasped out against John's shoulder, her face painfully hot. She buried her head in the folds of his coat, her hands clutching at the fabric. “I'm losing my mind, John. I really am.”

He held on tight, and the pressure of his hands, his arms, was amazingly comforting. So comforting that she almost could ignore the way her mind was buzzing, her common sense screaming at her with a voice that sound remarkably like Caroline. Because Caroline was the one who knew, who worried about them. Emma was the mother bear, and Margaret was quietly supportive, but Caroline was the one who told the hard, ugly truths, no matter how many times they fought over it.

And Sam took a step back, pulling out of John's arms, away from the heat of his body, away from his touch, her head down, her shoulders shaking. He let her go, and Sam took a long second, sucking in her breath, getting herself under control, because if this was going to be the way it ended, she was going to end it without hysterics, without being a complete disaster of a human being.

This had been the strangest relationship she'd ever had, but John deserved more than some crazy bitch screaming at him in the streets. Even if he was a spy. She was pretty sure he was a spy. Or a government agent of some sort. Of course, she was also pretty sure she was losing her mind.

“I'm sorry,” she said, and her vision was blurry. She hugged her bag to her chest,, her arms crushing the milk. “I can't do this anymore.”

John winced, his expression resigned. “Sam, I know this has been tough, but it's all been connected to one thing, the case I've been working on, and it's done now. I-”

“No,” Sam said, and her shoulders were slumped, her fingers digging into her own forearms. “No, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, you don't know just how much, because I do like you. I like you so much, you're so easy to be with, and so nice, and-” She stopped, licked her lips. “But I can't do this anymore. I feel like I'm going to have a nervous breakdown the whole time I'm with you.

“You saw you just now and my first thought was, 'Oh, thank God, he's safe, he's okay. And my second thought was, 'Who's after him now?' because that's what it is, John. There's always someone after you, and when I'm with you, they're after me, too. They're after me because I'm with you, because no one noticed me before and now I'm sleeping in police offices and nearly getting kidnapped and having people warn me away from you, and it's a terrifying experience, John.”

“Wait, who warned you away from me?” John asked, and she wanted to strangle him, because of course that's what he focuses on, because he's a damn male, that's what he chooses to focus all of his attention on and she just wanted to choke him for it.

“Everyone, John!” Her voice may have squeaked a little on the words, just a tiny bit, really, she didn't know how to get herself back under control, but she was trying to at least not sound like Minnie Mouse over here, because that was just embarrassing. “All of your friends, everyone who knows you.” She swallowed hard. “Him.”

“Him?” John's eyes narrowed. “Him, who?”

Sam stared at him, and suddenly, everything was calm. Even. She sucked in a breath, and another, and it was okay. It was fine, because, yes, it was over, and man, that hurt. More than it should've, really, but at least things were settled in her mind, she'd made her decision, she was walking away with what was left of her sanity and her life. 

“There's someone following you,” she whispered, because maybe he didn't know, he'd never shown any signs of knowing, he'd never warned her, either. Maybe he didn't know, maybe no one had ever told him. Maybe she was the only one who wasn't afraid or wasn't in his pocket, maybe no one had ever told John, because he didn't seem to know. “He's always there. He's-” She swallowed again, her throat dry and tight. “I don't know what he wants, but he's always there, and I think he's following you.”

John stared at her, and his face screwed up in an expression she couldn't quite read, something pained and frustrated and resigned, all at once. “But not you?”

“I've never seen him, unless I'm with you,” she whispered, and she took a step closer. Just in case. In case he was listening. “I mean, he's never approached me unless we've been on a date.”

John pressed a hand to his face, his fingers cupping over his eyes and then scraping down his face with a sigh. “Okay,” he said at last, and his voice was tight at the edges. “He talked to you.”

“Yes,” she said.

“And he scared you?” John didn't wait for her reply. “Why didn't you tell me, Sam? I would've put a stop to it, I promise.”

“He freaked me out, yes, and I don't think you should... Confront him,” she said, settling on the word. “I think you should go to the authorities, but maybe that won't help either, DI Lestrade was with him the other day, but he didn't arrest him, I asked him, and he said he couldn't make the charges stick.”

John was muttering something under his breath, something that sounded very much like, “I'm going to kill him,” but Sam knew she was better off not hearing anything that could hold up in a court of law as a death threat. It was just better that way, wasn't it?

Taking a deep breath, John gave her a strained smile. “I just need to be clear. This man that you saw following me, could you describe him for me?”

She sucked in a breath, her fingers white-knuckled on the shopping bag. “Tall, dark-haired, thin, pale,” she rattled off as quickly as possible. Tried to convince herself that talking about him wouldn't summon him like some sort of strange familiar or deamon. 

“Blue-grey eyes and a long black coat?” John filled in for her when she froze up. “Blue scarf?”

“Yes! Knotted at his throat.” She stared at him, gnawing on her lower lip hard enough to make it sting. “You know him?”

“Yes.” He reached up and touched her cheek, his fingers cold without gloves, but light and delicate. “Don't worry,” he said, and it was firm, comforting. “He won't hurt you. He won't hurt me either, but he will not hurt you. I promise.” Leaning forward, he brushed his lips against hers, and the bare contact tasted like coffee and peppermint, and when he stepped back, she caught the tip of his tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

She knew she was blushing, but she stumbled back a step, and then another. “I really like you, John,” she whispered. “But I can't do this any more. I really can't. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, but I can't live like this, waiting for you to be arrested or shot or disavowed or kidnapped or, oh, God, I'm not saying it's your fault, but I cannot deal with your lifestyle.”

Sam turned on her heel and took off, stumbling and tripping as she almost ran up the street. She knew he was calling after her, but she didn't stop, she didn't even pause, and she told herself that she was just having trouble seeing because the cold air stung her eyes. That made her a little less ashamed about the tears streaming down her cheeks.

*

“The sad thing is, every time I think I've found every possible reason to get dumped, my girlfriend finds a new and even more confusing explanation for why she can't keep dating me.” 

“Is that so?” Sherlock leaned over his microscope. “I'm sorry to hear that.” And even he knew he was doing a lousy job of actually sounding sorry. It's not that he liked it when John broke up with his girlfriends, he just preferred that John not waste the time of getting them to begin with. 

They were a distraction. An annoying one.

A hand came down on the table next to his microscope, and he felt John lean over his shoulder. “This one,” he said, his voice very calm, and very, very close to Sherlock's ear, “seemed to think that I was in danger from some sort of crazy stalker.”

Sherlock adjusted the magnification. “That does seem to fit,” he agreed. “You do get kidnapped far too often for my peace of mind. I'd appreciate it if you'd stop that.”

“Mmm.” The fingers drummed on the tabletop. “Her description of the man in question seemed... Familiar, for some unknown reason.”

“Really? How fascinating.”

“Isn't it?”

“No. It's not at all. It's boring.” He bit off the word with his usual acidic delivery, and reached for another petri dish.

“I don't know,” John mused aloud. “I find it to be completely fascinating. I find it fascinating when my girlfriend explains that she's absolutely terrified for my well-being, because a tall dark-haired man with a dark coat and a blue scarf keeps showing up in the vicinity of our dates.”

“That's quite vague. Have you heard the statistics on eyewitness suspect identification-” Sherlock began before John grabbed hold of the back of his chair and jerked it away from the kitchen table. He glared up at John, petri dish still in hand. “This is a very delicate experiment-” John took the dish out of his hand and threw it over his shoulder. It shattered on the kitchen floor. Sherlock sighed. “That was childish.”

“That's rich, coming from the man who's been creeping the hell out of my girlfriend!” John shouted.

“I didn't say a thing that wasn't one hundred percent factually correct,” Sherlock said, drawing himself up. Stalking past John, he headed for his violin. 

“How much did you say?”

“I'm sorry?” Sherlock said, pretending ignorance.

“Oh, don't be dense, it doesn't suit you. How often did you sneak up on her and play with her nerves?”

“I was concerned with our current case, and since it ended in gunplay and kidnapping, I was correct to be concerned.” He avoided John's eyes. “I was keeping an eye on you.”

“You were following me again,” John translated. “You need to not do that, Sherlock.”

Sherlock ignored him. “It's possible that I encountered Ms. Carter a few times.”

“And made threats.”

“I didn't make threats, John.” He ducked around the table and headed across the room. “I provide facts. It's not my fault if she misconstrued those facts in a manner that made her think that I was on less than friendly terms with you.”

“You deliberately encouraged her to misconstrue it!” John was right on his heels. “Sherlock, you cannot do that! You scared the hell out of the poor woman!”

“If I terrified her, she certainly isn't equipped to deal with the reality of your life,” Sherlock grumbled, picking up the instrument in a way that caused his dressing gown to swirl around him as he brought the bow up. Ignoring the look on John's face, he started to play.

“Not my life. Your life.” John reached up and stilled Sherlock's hand, his fingers light on Sherlock's wrist. “And if you have any interest in me sharing that life, Sherlock, you cannot do this.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth. “She was so ordinary!” he burst out at last.

John's lips twitched, and some of his usual humor was there in his eyes. “So am I, Sherlock.”

Sherlock made a scoffing noise.

“Thank you for that.” He paused. “I think. The point is, you can't just mess with people that way, Sherlock. It's not nice, and I don't appreciate it.”

Sherlock stared at him. “That's it?” he asked, arching his eyebrows. “That's the best thing you have to dissuade me?” He gave John a tight lipped smile. “I'll keep that in mind.”

“No, you're going to apologize.”

Sherlock's whole body went straight and tight as a bow string. “I most certainly will not.”

John leaned forward. “Wanna bet?”

*

“There's no point in discussing this any longer,” Sam said. “It's done.”

The three faces that were staring at her were wearing almost identical expressions of concern and sadness. Sam did her best to ignore them all. “Really?” Caroline sad at last.

“Yes. It's done. What's done is done, and it's done, I did it, I knew I had to do it, and it's for the best, so what-” Sam stopped, her fingers white knuckled on a cocktail napkin. “Anyway, I'm fine. It is fine. I broke up with him. I'm never going to see him again.”

“Are you sure that's what you want, honey?” Emma said, stirring her drink. “I mean, really?”

“What does it matter what I want? This was crazy, he was crazy, I'm losing my mind, and I'm never going to see him again!”

“Hello.”

All four women froze, and with a feeling of dread, Sam turned her head to the side, very, very slowly. John Watson was standing there, a faint smile on his lips and a warm twinkle in his eyes. Behind him, held in place by John's hand fisted in the back of his coat, looking all the world like a petulant kitten being dragged around by the nape of its neck, the lunatic with black curls did everything but dig in his heels to impede their progress. He wasn't successful. 

John ignored his passive resistance and shoved the larger man around in front of him, pushing him down into an open seat. “We haven't met,” he said, glancing around at Sam's friends. “I'm Dr. John Hamish Watson, MD. This is my flatmate, best friend, partner, and general pain in my ass, Sherlock Holmes. The world's only consulting detective.” He took a deep breath. “Sam, Sherlock has something to say to you.”

“I really don't,” Sherlock said, sounding bored.

John rolled his eyes. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock slumped a little lower in his seat, his lips a flat line of resistance, his brows drawn so low that his remarkable eyes all but disappeared. “No,” he said, forming the word with undue care.

There was a moment of silence, where all four of the women stared at Sherlock. Sherlock stared back, managing an expression that conveyed both petulance and disdain. Sam opened her mouth, and until the words came out, she wasn't aware that she'd lost her mind.

“You're his bloody flatmate? You're-” Her voice trailed off in an inarticulate sound of rage. “I will kill you, you bloody psychotic terrifying bastard!” And then Caroline and Margaret were grabbing her arms, holding her in her chair apparently not quite sure if that was a figure of speech or not, and not wanting to take the chance that Sam was secretly armed or could reach Emma's cider bottle.

John seemed used to this, because he moved Emma's bottle away from Sam, and Sherlock looked bored.

Emma reached over and poked Sherlock in the shoulder with her swizzle stick. He looked down at the damp spot on his coat, and then at her, perplexed. “Do you have any idea what this coat costs?”

“You wear that coat into the morgue, Sherlock, let's not get fussy about a little alcohol.”

“Christ, he's real,” Emma said. “I thought you were making him up, Sam. That, or hallucinating him. Hi!” She held a hand out to John. “I'm Emma. That's Margaret and Caroline. Are you a spy?”

“What? What, no!” John stared at her, his face stretching into a wide smile. “Are you joking?”

“Jesus, Emma, are you dense?” Caroline said, her voice disbelieving. “I'm pretty sure that if he is a spy, if someone asks him if he's a spy, he cannot answer yes to that question. I mean, not without water boarding being involved.”

“Usually when water boarding is involved, a person has already been identified as a spy, so that's not exactly a control question,” Sherlock said, his tone wry. Emma poked him again, and he gave her an affronted look. “Why are you doing that?”

She shrugged. “It seems like the thing to do.”

“I'm not a spy.” John looked at Sam, eyebrows arched. “I am not a spy. You thought I was a spy?”

“It made sense,” Sam said, drawing the words out. “Kinda. A little. Emma made it make sense.”

“That was Caroline's theory. I thought you were a mobster. Are you a mobster?” Emma asked, not the least bit bothered by the way everyone else at the table was staring at her, horrified.

John was shaking with silent laughter. “No,” he said. “Jesus, no! I've never even been arrested!”

“That doesn't mean you're not a mobster.”

“Also not precisely true,” Sherlock said. 

John rubbed a hand over his face. “And you're making this worse, which is what you're intending to do, you rotter, shut up now.”

“John-”

“AH!” John pointed a finger at him, and Sherlock's eyes crossed a little as he considered the fingertip that was hovering an inch in front of his nose. “Not. Another. Word.”

Margaret was just sitting very, very still, her eyes sliding between everyone as they spoke. “Excuse me,” she said at last. Everyone looked at her. “You're not a spy.”

“No,” John said.

She narrowed her eyes at him, but didn't object. “Not a criminal.”

“No,” he said.

“Actually-” Sherlock started, and paused as the finger came back to haunt him. He subsided, and Emma poked him again. “Do that again and I will not be responsible for my actions,” he told her.

“He's adorable! Like a rabid otter! You were scared of him?” Emma said to Sam.

“He's a lot less terrifying when he's not looming up out of dark alleys,” Sam said.

“He's terrifying when ever and where ever he chooses to be,” John told them. “Which, admittedly, is almost all of the time.”

“Focus!” Margaret slapped the table with her fingertips. “Ladies and gentlemen. Can we FOCUS.” She stared at John, eyes narrowed. “Military?”

“Former.” John's eyes were gleaming.

“HA!” Margaret threw her hands in the air. “I win!”

“When did you guess military?” Sam asked.

“Right after the first date,” Margaret said. “Former military?”

John's lips twitched. “Captain, formerly of Her Majesty's Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I was shot in the line of duty in Afghanistan, left shoulder, a wound that ended my military career, but luckily not my medical one, or my life. My military pension should be catching up to me any day now,” he explained to Sam. “It was still going to my other bank as of last cycle.”

“So you really are just a doctor.”

“Just a doctor.” He grinned. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Why didn't you ever mention it?” Sam asked. “The military service. Because you didn't, I'm really quite sure you didn't.”

John winced. “I don't usually bring it up, you know, right away. Some women are put off by it, others-” He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “Others are a little too into it, if you understand what I mean. So I try to just not talk about it until we know each other a bit better, then it feels like discussing a former line of work, rather than unveiling a great secret.”

“That explains the bullet wound and the gun,” Margaret said, “but why couldn't I find anything about you online? I looked. Quite a bit.”

“Sherlock, well, Sherlock solves crimes. I blog about it. It's pretty popular, actually,” John said, and there was a hint of pride to his voice. “But a little while ago, I posted something that I probably shouldn't have.”

“We may have slipped into classified territory without being aware of it,” Sherlock said, not that it seemed to bother him. “The case rather got out of control quickly, and it's likely we stepped over a line, somewhere between taking the case and using the false passports to sneak crates of liquor across the border.”

“It was rather a snowball effect, but yes, we ended up crossing a line or two. We went over that line,” John said. “Way, way over the line. Our flat was invaded by all sorts of agents and the diplomatic corps, and there was yelling, and threats of violence, and confiscation of all sorts of things.” He rubbed his forehead. “My laptop, his computer, our files-”

“The human jawbones from the freezer,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. 

“Wait, the what?” Sam asked.

“There was quite a mess, and it ended up being an issue, and the next thing we know, Sherlock's brother-”

“I love how he's 'my brother' when you're upset with him.”

“He's always your brother. And I'm almost always upset with him, so I'm not certain where you're going with this,” John said, before returning to his explanation. “Sherlock's brother holds a minor position in the British government-”

“He is the British government,” Sherlock mumbled, and got poked with the swizzle stick again for his pains. “You are an idiot,” he told Emma, who grinned at him.

“He had pretty much everything removed until it could be determined if there was a problem, or if anyone was going to try to assassinate us, and I think there's still someone assigned to read my emails-”

“No one is reading your emails,” Sherlock said. “Stop being paranoid.”

“You read my emails all the time, Sherlock.”

“Well, of course I read your emails, that's just to be expected.”

John stared at him, and it seemed like he wanted to say something, and then he shook his head. “So, anyway, after everyone calmed down, and the yelling was over and the charges of treason were dropped because there was no way they were going to stick, they put everything back online. I'm told that my blog's been restored, heavily censored, of course, and Sherlock's site is back up. We should both appear on a Google search again, but I wouldn't recommend looking us up soon, you'll end up on some government watch list.” He paused. “Multiple government's watch lists.”

“If she's been searching for you, she already is,” Sherlock said, arching an eyebrow at Margaret. “I'd get a lawyer, if I were you. One that specializes in the Indonesian legal system.”

“Lovely,” she said.

“So, that case, that was why you were kidnapped the other night?” Sam asked.

“Oh, no. No, I don't write about cases until they're done. This was...” His voice trailed off, and he rubbed a hand over his face. “No, this was something else.”

“This case wasn't nearly as interesting,” Sherlock said, and no one was really quite sure what to say to that.

“So, your brother, did he have something to do with the woman? The one with the mobile and the big black car?” Sam asked Sherlock at last, but it was John who answered. 

“That was Anthea. And yes, she's his Girl Friday, and is usually in charge of kidnapping me.”

“John has a tendency to get into unfamiliar cars with beautiful women. It's a weakness,” Sherlock said, staring at the ceiling. John gave him a look. He didn't seem to notice.

“And the police?” Margaret asked. When they both looked at her, she clarified. “Why were the police so upset by your presence, at the robbery? How do they know you?”

“Sherlock consults with the police,” John explained. “I get dragged along.”

“He keeps them away from me,” Sherlock said.

“They like me more than him,” John added. “In that I don't call them idiots. To their faces.”

“Consults. With the police.” Emma seemed suspicious.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, eyes narrowing on her.

“And they're usually concerned that if I'm there, then Sherlock will be right behind, or Mycroft's people will be.” John gave her a faint smile. “Interdepartmental paperwork is more of a bitch than you'd think, and Sherlock has his own set of problems.”

“I solve problems.”

“The number of problems you solve and the number of problems you cause usually even out,” John told him, his voice caustic. 

“The ones I solve are infinitely more troublesome than the ones I create.”

“It's a matter of degrees.”

Emma leaned forward and poked him in the cheek with the swizzle stick, and Sherlock's hand snapped up, catching it between his index and middle fingers and snapping it in half with a flick of his wrist. He handed them back with a smirk. “I did warn you.” 

Emma looked at the plastic fragments, and gave a shrug. “So, you consult. With the police. Doing what, exactly?”

He looked in her direction, his eyes narrowing on her. “Solving their problems. The ones they can't solve.”

“So you're an informant?” Emma grinned when he pulled a face. “Guess not.”

“No,” he said, in a caustic tone.

“So what do you do?”

Sherlock's lips stretched up in a smile, and John shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice firm. “You've caused enough trouble.”

“No such thing,” Sherlock said, eyebrows arching. His eyes were locked on Emma. “She asked.”

“I did ask,” Emma said, grinning. “I have no idea what's going on here, but yes, I did ask. I really asked, why are you staring at me like that?”

“Taking your measure,” he said, turning away.

“Wonderful. What have you figured out?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Oh, God,” John said, rubbing a hand over his face.

“You have two nephews by way of an older brother, both under age four, a cat, a boyfriend you're still in love with, but who has recently moved away, but you haven't broken up, though you're not really sure what the current status of your relationship is, you love old films and have seen the newest superhero movie twice in the last week, you're a copywriter and despise grammatical errors, but you depend heavily on spellcheck features, an addiction to orange chocolate and you're a cheap drunk.”

There was a beat of silence. “So, pretty much everything,” Emma said, blinking. “What'd I have for lunch?”

“Pad thai.”

“Well, shit,” she said, grinning.

“I am officially creeped out right now.” Caroline took a long sip from her glass.

“That was pretty amazing, actually,” Sam said, blinking. Sherlock turned towards her, his mouth opening, and she held up a hand. “No. No, no, no, you have already tormented me more than enough, and it's been a really tough couple of days, and if you pull that stuff with me, I am going to burst out crying. Again. So don't, please don't, okay?”

“I'm sorry,” John said, wincing.

“It's not your fault,” Sam said.

“Actually, yeah it is.” Emma looked around the table. “Look, I'm going to say this, because you are all idiots. This is all your fault,” she said, stabbing a finger at John's chest.

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. This is your fault. Okay, okay, so it's a little bit your fault, Sherlock, because you were creepy, and a little bit your fault, Sam, because you were a timid wimp-”

“Hey!” Sam said, hurt despite herself.

“It's true and you know it's true. And it's a little bit the fault of all of your friends, John, because they kept doing the whole 'in-joke' thing around a new person who could not possibly have known what they were doing and best case scenario would've felt excluded and worst case, well, you've seen the worst case. The woman continued dating you thinking about bombs and guns and police intervention and the possibility of you dying in Hungary.”

“I'm not sure where Hungary comes into this-”

“We really liked 'Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy,'” Emma explained. “But the point is, this is all your fault.”

John's head tipped to the side. “Okay,” he said at last, lips pursed. 

“Let's take this rationally,” Emma began.

“Oh, this'll be amusing,” Sherlock said, and she rolled her eyes.

“Shut up. I'm on your side. A little. Creeper.” Emma cleared her throat. “Now, you've never met us before, and I know Sam wouldn't bring you here. Because this is our favorite pub, no men intrude on our girl sanctuary. And Sam was sitting with her back to the door, wearing a sweatshirt that she wouldn't wear on a date, or to work, and a hat that we really wish she wouldn't wear anywhere.”

“Why am I friends with you again?” Sam asked her, and was hushed for her trouble.

“So since you couldn't have seen Sam, and you didn't know our usual table, you still recognized us. Which meant that Sam talked about us enough for us to be familiar to you. You knew enough about Sam's friends and life that you knew where we'd be, where we'd be sitting, and who we were. Without ever having spoken to the three of us before.” She propped her chin on her hands, fluttering her eyelashes. “Am I right?”

John seemed to sense the trap he was walking into. “Yes,” he said with a faint sigh.

“Which stands to reason that if you'd discussed your flatmate, and self-proclaimed best friend, then Sam might've had a chance of realizing who your creepy little stalker boy was. But since that never crossed her mind as a possibility, I'm going to guess that you never talked to her about Sherlock. Or even told her his name.” Emma frowned. “That's kind of a dick move, and if I were your roommate and best friend, my feelings would be hurt. Like, seriously, hurt.”

Sherlock gave her a disdainful look. “This is the best that your little mind can accomplish? Babbling on about feelings?”

She reached over and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Don't be such a pill and so nasty and he might introduce you to his dates, Sherlock.”

“I'm not nasty,” he snapped.

“Yeah, current evidence suggests otherwise,” Margaret said. “I wouldn't let anyone I was dating near you, either, so, I'm on John's side.”

“I'm not,” Sam said, and she was a little hurt, that was strange, she did feel like she'd been made the butt of a joke. She looked at John, trying for a smile, but it was a weak thing. “I really feel stupid. I felt stupid. Everyone kept talking around me like I wasn't there. Not you, not really, but all of your friends, everyone who knew you, no one, um, took me seriously.”

He nodded, eyes sliding shut. “I wish you'd told me,” he said, his mouth kicking up on one side. 

“I didn't really want to hear the answer,” Sam said with a shrug. “Because out of all the options, 'consulting detective' didn't occur to me.”

“Cannot imagine why.” John glanced in Sherlock's direction. “I'm sorry, Sherlock. I should've told her all about you, but you do have a habit of doing things to scare off women who date me.”

Sherlock made a face, lip curling up in a snarl. But as John held his gaze, the expression died, and he turned his head, avoiding John's eyes. There was a flash of something there, in his mobile features, that Sam couldn't identify, but she had to guess that John could. His face relaxed, just a little, and there was affection in his smile when he studied his friend.

“Fine,” John said at last, and his smile stretched. “I'll just have to tell everyone about you.”

“No,” Sherlock said, his shoulders tensing.

“Yes,” John sing-songed back. “So, let me tell you how we met...”

The rest of the night was a tangle of stories and laughter and alcohol and Emma trying to braid Sherlock's hair when he was arguing with John about just who had chosen to jump off that bridge first. John insisted that he'd gone after Sherlock, and Sherlock insisted that he'd only gone because he'd known John was going to fall. Margaret had actually put her phone away, but Sam could almost see her making mental notes to check up on later. Caroline made it clear that she didn't believe anything anyone was saying. 

Sam, for her part, was just glad that she knew what was going on for once.

John checked his watch with a groan. “Sorry,” he said, giving Sam a smile. “I've got work tomorrow.”

She glanced at her mobile and winced. “Yes, so do I.”

“Let's pack it in, ladies and gentlemen,” Caroline said, standing. She shot the women a look, clearly she wasn't going to go anywhere until there was a debrief, but no point in letting the men know that.

While John was shrugging into his coat, Sherlock stood. “A spy, really?” he said, looking down at them with disdain.

“Oh, come on, we didn't have anything to work with,” Sam told him.

He rolled his eyes, clearly not impressed by that statement. “And you managed to misinterpret every single thing that you did have. It's almost impressive how wrong-headed you've been.”

“Sherlock,” John said, and his voice had this warning in it. It wasn't a threatening sort of warning, but a faint sound of disappointment. It wasn't even addressed towards her, and Sam still winced. 

For his part, Sherlock didn't seem bothered. “Oh, for me, that was positively diplomatic.”

John stared at him for an instant. “It was. This worries me. This worries me quite a bit.”

“As well it should.” Sherlock looked down at Sam, his eyes a slit, his chin up, but there was a faint smile on his lips. For the first time, Sam detected a certain respect in his expression. “I'm sorry I frightened you,” he said to Sam, and John's head snapped around so fast that Sam was afraid he'd given himself whiplash. 

John stared at him,as if weighing the sincerity of the statement and then a smile bloomed on his features, warm and easy. He gave Sherlock an approving nod.

“Thank you,” Sam said. “I reserve the right to punch you if you get all weird and stalkery again.”

“Understood.” Sherlock straightened his coat, his scarf. “Well, that's enough social interaction for tonight,” he said, his tone sardonic. “John?”

“Yeah.” John tucked his hands in his pockets, smiling at Sam. “See you at the bank.”

She nodded. Then, before she could stop herself, she rushed out, “Dinner tomorrow?”

He paused, and slowly, carefully, nodded. “I'd like that.”

He headed for the door, and Sherlock paused, just for an instant. “Spies,” he said, his voice soft and low, eyes glinting at her, “are numerous and worthless. There's only one John Watson.”

Sam's face stretched in a wide, feminine smile. “I'll fight you for him.”

Only a single quick blink betrayed his surprise, and he leaned over, his mouth next to her ear, and he's been there before, and she's not scared this time, but her heart skips a beat anyway. “You'll lose,” he whispered.

Sam caught his scarf in one hand, holding him in place, just long enough to turn her head and whisper into his ear, “That's okay, I've always wanted to try a threesome.”

He didn't react, he didn't say a word, but as she released him, as he straightened up, there was the faintest hint of pink in his cheeks. Or she thought there was. It might've been a trick of the light, or her overheated brain, but she chose to think that yes, she'd gotten in one good hit.

No point in losing without landing at least one sucker punch.

In any case, he gave her an arch look, and a faint snort of derision that was only mildly countered by the hint of a smile on his face, and then he was gone, with a swirl of his coat and a firm step. He caught up to John with a couple of long strides and the two of them slipped into the bar crowd and out of sight.

For a long, long moment after they'd left the table, there was only silence. “Wow,” Emma said at last.

“So that happened,” Caroline said.

“I need alcohol,” Sam said. “I need so much goddamn alcohol right now.”

Margaret stood. “It's on me. Or rather, it's on Caro.” She held out a hand towards Caroline. “Pay up.”

“What, our bet?” Caroline stared at her. “No. You didn't win.”

“I totally won. That is by no means the worst man she's ever dated, and that was the bet.” Margaret wiggled her fingers at Caroline.

Caroline leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. “How do you figure?” she said at last. “Really, Margaret. Really? She was shot at, nearly kidnapped, threatened, stalked, worked herself into a near nervous breakdown, developed a serious drinking problem and now I'm pretty sure that she's on some government watch list, and it sounds like you sure as hell are. And you're saying, you don't think that this is the worst boyfriend she's ever had?”

“Yeah, remember Pepsi Can Mike?”

Caroline paused, and sighed. “Fine,” she said, reaching for her purse. “But I want a-”

“Pearl Harbor, I know,” Margaret said, rolling her eyes. She grinned as Caroline slapped the bill into her hand. “Sam, what do you want?”

“Booze.”

“Care to be more specific?”

“Lots of booze,” Sam clarified. “The booziest booze available.”

“Yeeeeah,” Margaret said. “Shots it is.”

“Look,” Emma said, using the broken ends of the swizzle stick to pin her hair up. “You did an amazing job with, you know, not panicking. At least not much. It's over now. Let's get drunk!”

“Hello.”

Everyone froze. Sam groaned, her eyes sliding shut. 

“He'd like a word.”

Sam rolled her head to the side. She wasn't surprised to find the gorgeous brunette there, fingers busy on her mobile. “John and Sherlock just left,” she said, too tired to even panic. “Sorry, you just missed them.”

Red lips curled up, just the tiniest fraction. “No. He'd like a word with you.”

Sam paused. “Uh, who?” she asked, and she was just stalling. She knew she was just stalling. But yeah, she didn't know what the hell else she could do. Running and screaming were her backup plan, but for now, she'd leave that as Plan B.

“Mycroft Holmes.” The smile stretched, just a fraction. “Sherlock's older brother.”

“Oh, God,” Sam said, on a wail. “No.”

The woman, Anthea, chuckled. “I'm afraid so.” She glanced up from her mobile, one eyebrow raising in a perfect arch. “I did try to warn you.”

“You and everyone else.” Sam stood, straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. “Margaret.”

“Yes?” Margaret said, as she returned to the table. She was looking at Anthea with a wary sort of respect.

“Give me a shot. Now.”

“That's probably not a good idea-” Margaret started, just as Caroline slapped a shotglass into Sam's hand. She sighed. “Don't.”

“Too late!” Sam tossed it back, and coughed her way back to vertical. Her eyes watering, she turned to Anthea. “Okay,”she croaked. “Let's do this thing.”

Anthea's lips stretched into a full grin. “Well, that was stupid,” she said.

“Yeah, I'm known for that.” Grinning back, Sam grabbed her purse. “I'm ready.”

“Uh-huh.”Anthea fell into step beside her. 

“This is my life now, isn't it?” Sam asked her. Anthea arched her eyebrows, but didn't reply, and Sam started giggling, the sound high and just on this side of hysterical. When Anthea turned a sharp gaze on her, she shook her head. “No, no, sorry. It's nothing. I was just thinking, why couldn't THIS relationship be the one that ended in gay porn?”

Anthea laughed out loud, making Sam start. “No insult to you, Ms. Carter,” she said,her heels clicking over the noisy sound of the bar, “but I still hold out hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note the second: Thanks for sticking with me til the end. As I promised, the plot holes were mostly covered, including the fact that the official BBC Blog for Watson does have 'censored' entries, with appropriate comments from the characters about why they're no longer there. If you've never visited John Watson's blog, do that now. It's hysterical.
> 
> Dedicated to the real women who inspired Sam's friends. Names have been changed to keep the author from being bludgeoned to death with her own laptop, because they will find this eventually. I claim amnesty based on fandom. That'll hold up in court, right? This story was thought up as we discussed just how GODDAMN sketchy these two might seem if you didn't have the proper amount of back story. Or if, you know, Sherlock wanted you to think that he was sketchy. He's been dealing with Mycroft for his entire life, there is no way he couldn't have picked up a few 'looming and threatening' tricks.


End file.
